


1,000 Times

by LanJevinson



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Hancock AU, Shameless Big Bang, Soulmate AU, brief mentions of attempted suicide and ideation, drugs and alcohol as coping mechanisms, mentions of minor character death - not Ian or Mickey, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson/pseuds/LanJevinson
Summary: 1966.  The year Mickey woke up, miraculously recovered from a bullet wound to the back of the head, with no memory of who he was, no one to claim him, and extraordinary abilities: super strength, indestructible, inability to age.  After accidentally outing his abilities to the world, Mickey becomes a reluctant - and lonely - vigilante superhero, until a chance encounter in 2016 changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, enormous thanks to @wideblueskies for the beta work, @lydiamartenism for the brainstorming sessions, @me-ladie for the last minute beautiful art, and to @grumblesandmumbles for the support and laughs along the way.
> 
> This fic will be posted in entirety within the next few days!

The warehouse is lit with worklights.  Below him the men work steadily, quietly, occasionally breaking the lull of silence to give a stilted command or a sharp reprimand.  They’re making pretty short work of it, loading the cocaine into the cars.  Just a few more minutes now.  He wants to enjoy the last of his cigarette before he gets to work.  He blows the smoke up towards the ceiling, shifting his weight on the shadowy rafters, high above the men on the ground.  He’s never really liked heights.  No reason to be scared, obviously, but it’s something in his bones.  Maybe the last of his deep seated survival instincts left over from when he was human.  Is he human?  Was he ever?

He knows that he must have felt physical pain before,  He's got bullet wound scars, two on his left ass cheek, and one on the back of his head, all of which he has no memory of receiving.  (Jesus, what sort of life was he fucking leading?)  He dreams about it sometimes, although as time passes, it's become less and less frequent.  Sometimes he sees himself writhing on the ground.  Sometimes he sees shadowy figures leaning over him, sneering and kicking and punching and shouting.   And worst of all, he sees someone else.  A man -mostly unhurt- and yet, face twisted in agony.

Now _that_ sort of pain he knows well.  The emotional kind.  He's been in emotional fucking turmoil for fifty years.

The slam of a car door breaks his reverie and brings his eyes back down to the ground.  The product’s safely packed up in the trunks.  Easier for when the cops get here.  He likes it when the powder clouds around him as they shoot.  Feels more like a movie that way, but he got shit for it the last time.  Cops like their ducks in a row.  They say it’s because it’s easier to track and dispose of when the coke is all packaged to sell, but he’s pretty sure they like to pocket some of it.  One thing he’s learned in all of the years he can remember, it’s that cops are crooked.  People are crooked.  Everyone is shitty.

He tosses the butt of his cigarette away and takes a deep breath.  Then he jumps.

The roof of the car he lands on crumples, and all around him men are shouting.  He moves quickly as the shooting begins.  Doesn’t bother to dodge the bullets.  They glance off of him like they're made of styrofoam.  Like Nerf bullets.

There are ten men; he counted twice to be sure.  They’re small time drug dealers, trying to make it big.  Not too smart either.  Woulda been more security otherwise.  He tosses the first guy into another, knocking them both out.  Grabs the third guy’s gun and hits him with the butt of the rifle, then shoots the fourth, fifth, and sixth in the kneecaps (cops hate it when he does that, too, but there’s something satisfying about pulling the trigger on a weapon, and something even more satisfying about hearing the men who deserve it scream).  He doesn’t ever kill them unless it’s really necessary.  What do the cops expect?  He’s doing their job for them, so they shouldn’t be allowed to complain.

They still do, though.  Everyone does.

Seven hops in the driver’s seat of one of the other cars, so he picks it up and throws it.

Eight and nine try to run on foot.  It’s almost cute.  He stops them with a hand to their chests, then grins as he knocks their heads together.

Ten knows he’s caught.  He curls up on the ground, putting up a defiant front, still clutching his semi-automatic.  The last one’s always the leader, and he always tries to get a word in.

“You,” number ten spits.  “Should have fucking known.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, shaking his head with feigned ruefulness as he picks the guy up by the neck.  “You should’ve.  Running drugs from a fucking warehouse in the middle of nowhere.  Could you be any more cliche?”

By the time the cops arrive, he’s lounging on top of one of the cars, having his second smoke as the drug runners  lay in a pile at his feet in various stages of consciousness.  He’s also got a kilo stuffed down the back of his pants, but what the cops don’t know won’t hurt them.

“Really, man?”  Agent Hernandez shakes his head and re-holsters his weapon when he sees him.  The other cops move around them hastily, assessing the situation.  “You had to fucking shoot some of them?  Thought we talked about this.” He tugs his walkie off his shoulder and says into it, “We need a couple ambulances.”

“Eh...” Mickey sniffs, surveying the unconscious.  “Better make it three.”

“Jesus.”  Hernandez rolls his eyes, bending backwards at the waist in consternation.

“Next time I’ll let you pigs walk into a bloodbath, how ‘bout?”  He shrugs, hops off the car, flicks his cigarette at Hernandez’s shoes.  “Have a nice night, officers.”

“Fuck you too, Mickey,” Hernandez calls to his back as he disappears into the night.  He winds up hopping on the  L to get home, even though taking it at a run would probably be just as fast.  Even if he can’t physically get winded, he’s still a lazy fucker, and besides, he likes making the wannabe tough teenagers quiver in their seats when they spot him in the same train car.

He used to stay high on adrenaline long after an Event, back when he’d first started the whole vigilante shit.  He used to drink just to relax, come back down to earth again.  But the saving people shit is old hat by now.  Now he just drinks out of habit.  To quell the loneliness.

Speaking of alcohol, he’s out.  He’s gonna need something to wash down the blow.  He stops in at his favorite liquor store down the block from his house when he gets off at his stop.  

“Hey, Mickey,” Jamal, Mickey’s favorite store clerk, greets him.  “Rough night?”  Jamal gestures to Mickey’s shirt, grinning and wide-eyed, and Mickey raises a brow and glances down.

“Aw, fuck.  Didn’t even notice.”  His shirt and pants are torn to shreds with bullet holes.  Another outfit to toss in the trash.  The city should fucking pay him in clothes.  The city should pay him, _period_.  “Perks of the job,” Mickey says as Jamal shakes his head in amused disbelief.  Mickey smiles tightly, setting down his case of beer and bottle of jack.  He grabs a couple of packages of sunflower seeds on impulse too, then pats at his pants pockets out of habit.  He tries not to carry any shit with him during an Event.  “Fuck.  Don’t got any cash on me tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it.  I got you.”  Jamal grins at him, pushing the alcohol towards Mickey.  Jamal’s probably the only person in the world who still appreciates him, what he does.  Mickey tries not to rely on him too often.  Jamal shouldn't be using the cash he needs for his kid to support Mickey’s heavy drinking habit.  

“Hey, how’s Shayna doing?” Mickey asks as he loads up his arms.  Mickey’d saved Jamal’s baby daughter from an apartment fire above the liquor store years ago.

“Real good, Mickey.  She’s gonna be five soon.”  Jamal grins and whips out his phone to show Mickey a picture of a smiling little girl with huge brown eyes.  

“Shit, already? Man, time flies.”  He’s lying.  Time doesn’t move quickly, not for him.  Not anymore.  “Tell her Mickey says hey, alright?”  Then he pushes the door of the liquor store open and heads toward home, cracking a beer open as he walks.

He's managed to stay out of the headlines for a few weeks, so his block is deserted of paps (usually there's one lurking around every corner).  He doesn't fucking know why pictures of him coming and going from his crappy house are so newsworthy. _This Just In: Mickey Has Shit To Do!_

His house is dark and silent when he shoulders the door open.  He should be used to the quiet by now, but it never fails to dampen his already dark mood when he comes home to nothing.  And no one.

Mickey stops in his musty bedroom to dig his most precious possession out of his back pocket and stick it in its place on the bedside table.  The dirty, dented old Altoid tin has definitely seen better days, and he shouldn’t bring it with him when he’s working, but he feels naked without it.  Mickey tears off his shredded clothes and throws them in a pile in his room, then he shuffles back into the living room in his boxers and plops himself down on the couch where he’d left the package of coke and his booze.  It takes a lot to get him fucked up.  Probably due to being superhuman.  A fucking superhero.

He hates that word, _superhero_.  Doesn't help his already dark mood when people refer to him that way.  Probably due to all these shitty comic book movies that are all the fucking rage.

He'd be lying if he said their stories didn't interest him a little though, especially how they got their powers: From another planet.  Norse God.  Bit by a radioactive spider.  Born that way.  Or just  really fuckin’ rich with a chip on their shoulder.  All of them have some sort of story of how they became who they are.  Even the villains.

Mickey, on the other hand, doesn't have that luxury.

He recounts the first day of his current life as a series of events in screaming, confusing, jumbled color.  Jolting awake in a hospital bed.  A medical miracle.  Nearly beaten to death and shot in the head to top it off, miraculously healed within weeks, they said.  The tiniest of indents behind his ear to add to his collection of bullet wound scars on his left ass cheek.  Unrelated, they said.  Leftover from a youthful mistake, probably, they figured.  Perhaps he was military.

They asked him question after question.  What happened?  Who did this?  Who are you?

_Who was he?_

He didn't know then.  Still doesn't really know now.  No family.  No friends.  No missing persons report, no witnesses to the crime.

It was like he had been created and born right then, only he already knew how to walk and talk and eat and not shit himself.

His wallet had been taken, of course,  but a nurse gave him two movie ticket stubs they’d found in his pocket.  When he’d been discovered in an alley by a police officer who’d heard the shot, he’d been barely conscious, bleeding profusely from his head, but he’d managed to tell the cop his name.   _Did he think the name Mickey sounded correct?_

Mickey.  Was that even his name?  Didn't matter much, anyway.  No one came to claim him.  No one around to call him by his name.

They wanted to alert the media.  Put his face out there to find some answers.  But the way Mickey saw it, someone had already done a pretty good job of trying to kill him.  He should have been dead.  He took a bullet to the back of the skull, for fuck’s sake.  That, and if he’d mattered to anyone, they would have already come looking.  And no one had.

So he said no.  Checked himself out.  They couldn't keep him there, he wasn't injured.  He left the hospital on August 7, 1966, and entered a world he vaguely recognized but didn't remember.  Nothing about the town of Duluth, Minnesota, the place he'd come back to life, seemed familiar.  Nothing except the view of the vast Lake Superior, and he hadn't known why.  He gets it now though, he thinks, now that he's settled in Chicago.  It reminded him of home.  He's pretty sure that's what Chicago had been to him, before.

It took him a long time to make his way home, though.  In the beginning he traveled without agenda, doing odd jobs to get by, generally capitalizing on his superhuman strength.  (He'd figured out at the hospital that he was different when a nurse had come to take blood and the needle had snapped when she tried to push it into his vein.)  Sometimes stealing if he was desperate enough.  For a decade he moved from country to country, staying the longest in Eastern Europe, where he made a meager living as a circus sideshow act.  Something about the thick accents of the people in these places when they spoke English made him reminiscent.  About what, exactly, he isn't sure, and he's long ago given up on trying to find out.

But he never felt at home anywhere.  There was always this tight feeling in his chest, like a tether stretched too far.  He discovered as he moved across the world that the pain would ebb and flow, and when he returned to Duluth, where he'd woken up, the taut feeling loosened.  So he learned to listen to it, let it pull him.  And when he eventually settled in Chicago in the eighties, the feeling lessened even more.  Loitering around Chicago felt like a muscle memory.  Like his body knew the city.  And so, Mickey stayed.

He’s watched the world change around him.  The moon landing.  The Civil Rights Movement.  The AIDS epidemic.  Awful eighties hair.  September 11th.  He’s watched the few friends he made get older.  Watched their children get older.  In fifty years,  Mickey’s stayed exactly the same.

It wasn't even that shocking, really, when he truly took notice of his lack of aging for the first time.  After all, he'd already had plenty of time to get used to his strange abilities.  He may have known he was different the moment he'd woken in the hospital, but it took a while to realize how astonishingly exceptional he was as he began to push his limits.  He could run fast, as fast as a speeding car without exertion.  Jump high.  Couldn't burn, cut or bruise.  Couldn’t die.

People are afraid of death, afraid of ceasing to exist.  But Mickey can’t think of anything worse than an eternity on earth as loved ones leave you behind.  Not that Mickey has any loved ones.  Just guys he takes home, or lets fuck him wherever he feels like it.  He's not opposed to being in a relationship, if the circumstances of his life were different.  He used to sort of like the idea, even.  His longest lasted almost half a decade, with Alexei, an acrobat back in his Russian circus days.  Of course, the guy’d had a wife and kids, and being the dirty little secret eventually lost its appeal.  Now, ever since he accidentally turned himself into a public superhero in the early nineties, the only guys he's met are mostly into getting their fifteen minutes of fame.  He’s been seeing this one guy though, Sam, a couple times a month for the better part of a year.  Mickey likes the guy well enough, but he doesn’t want to be anything more than secret fuck buddies, and Sam’s okay with that.  Mickey doesn’t need the public to find out about someone he’s seeing.  It would tear any shred of privacy he's got left away from him, and put the other person in danger.  He’s not interested in saving a lover from bad guys like they’re some damsel in distress.

Speaking of, he could use a decent fuck.  He snags his phone from the end table. (Cell phones have been around for more than a decade now but he still grimaces every time he has to text someone.  It's great for watching porn, though.)  He shoots off a message to Sam, already knowing what the reply will be.  

_come over.  I have coke._


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t know why he bothers anymore, honestly.

In the beginning when he was first discovered, his life was much more glamorous.  He made bank just appearing on talk shows and doing magazine interviews.  And his less-than-stellar personality was billed as that of a brooding, misunderstood superhero.  He didn’t answer any question he didn’t want to answer (namely, anything he didn’t know the answer to, like how he got his powers) and that made him even more mysterious to the public.  He even got an endorsement deal with Nike for a while.  Had to wear Nike head to toe while fighting bad guys and saving people from fires and shit.  That deal made him a shit ton of cash.

Of course, being a celebrity comes at a price.  The media and the public fucking love to tear down the very people they’ve raised up.  His penchant for drugs and alcohol were exposed.  It was rumored that he preferred the company of men to women.  Whenever he fucked up, didn’t make it to an emergency in time, didn’t manage to stop people from getting hurt, or even simply fucking needed to sleep instead of listen to the police radio all hours of the night, he was raked through the coals.  But the real kicker came when he was sued for the first time ever, by a man who claimed to have been injured as Mickey slung him over his shoulders to carry him to safety after an explosion.  Mickey’d settled out of court at the advice of his lawyer on that one, but the threats and legal issues (once the city actually billed _him_ for wrecking the concrete on the freeway while he stopped a car chase) continued, until eventually Mickey just ignored them.  What were they gonna do about it, anyway?

Try as he might to deny it, that shit got to him.  He hadn’t asked to be this way.  Hadn’t even wanted to go public, but it happened.  What had started out as a personal penance of guilt turned into something that gave his miserable life purpose, and then it all went to hell.

So now he’s living off whatever’s left in the bank, doing the occasional interview and photoshoot if he’s feeling desperate, cashing in on favors from petty criminals he’s let go with a warning in the past.  He understands that lifestyle of never getting on top, having to take what you need to survive.  He feels like he might have lived that way, once.  He’s kind of living that way now.  He still plays his part, because he’s got fuck all else to do, and even though most of the people of Chicago aren’t grateful for it, he knows he’s made the city a safer place.  It’s a little consolation, anyway.

Today he’s ambling home from stopping a local robbery, an open forty (not his first, or even his second) in a brown paper bag in his hand.  The late June sun is still high in the sky at the tail end of rush hour.  He weaves in and out of cars jammed on the streets, heading in the direction of home.  He’s never bothered to learn to drive himself.  What the fuck would he need to do that for?  As he's minding his own business a guy shouts, “Fuck you, Mickey!” out his car window.  Mickey runs his fingernail along the side of the guy’s pimped out Escalade, relishing the screeching sound of chipping paint and the shrieks of protest from the driver.

The traffic hardly moves over the next several minutes.  Mickey makes significantly more ground traveling at a walking speed on foot than any of the commuters in their cars. A few hundred feet in front of him, the warning bell at the railroad crossing starts to ring, and the lights flash and the crossroad arms go down.  Right on top of a car stuck in the traffic jam.  The car’s reverse lights go on and the driver attempts to back up, but there’s so much traffic and the cars couldn’t move to let him out if they wanted to.  Which they probably don’t, because they’re entitled assholes.

“Aw, shit.”  Mickey sets his beer on the roof of the nearest car and takes it at a jog.  He makes it just in time to step in front of the front of the SUV and he shoves the car hard, denting the hood like an accordion and shooting the car into the one behind it.  He can't help but wince as, stepping out of the way of the train as it blows by, he watches the chain reaction.  Car after car bumps into the one behind them.  So maybe he came in a little hot, whatever.

Immediately the honking and yelling begins.

“Fucking seriously?” A man bellows as he steps out of his car.

“What the hell were you thinking?” another shouts.  All of a sudden he's surrounded by a horde of angry motorists.

“I'm suing you for damages!”

“Good fucking luck with that,” Mickey barks in the direction of the faceless heckler, turning his back on the firing squad to address the man who's emerging from his own car.  “You okay, man?”

He’s handsome and sandy haired, with frazzled light brown eyes and a well tailored suit.  Mickey pegs him at about forty.

The man opens and closes his mouth, still in too much shock to respond.  Mickey waves his hand in front of the guy’s face.

“You could have just picked the car up instead of damaging anything else,” one woman from the peanut gallery offers snidely.

“Or just pushed it on its back end,” another asshole suggests, motioning with his hand.

“Thanks for the suggestions,” Mickey snaps at them.  “Now get the fuck out of here!”

“How?” someone else cries.  “This guy’s still blocking the road!”

Mickey rolls his eyes.  He turns to the guy, raising his eyebrows to request permission to touch his car, then bends at the knees and picks up the SUV, raising it over his head and walking fifty paces  to the side of the road, where he drops it on all four wheels again.  That gets a smattering of applause, though it’s difficult to tell whether or not the people are truly impressed or just thankful to get on with their commute already.

As the still-grumbling crowd gets back in their cars and traffic starts moving again, Mickey turns once again to the man, who had followed Mickey over to the side of the street.  He looks a lot more with it now that the imminent danger is gone.

“Jesus,” the guy breathes, running his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair.  “Saw my life flash through my eyes for a minute there.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees neutrally, shrugging.  He’s heard that before, but he can’t really relate to the feeling.

“I can’t thank you enough,” the guys says.  “You saved my life.”  He reaches in his back pocket for his wallet.

“I don’t want your money.”  Mickey holds up his hands in rejection.  Sometimes that happens.  He’s aware he often looks like a homeless guy.  Speaking of, his forty is definitely long gone.

The guy laughs.  “I wasn’t going to pay you.  I wanted to give you my card.”  The guy rifles through his wallet as Mickey looks on curiously, then he hands Mickey a glossy business card.  Mickey shrugs and pockets it without looking too closely  This happens sometimes too.   “John Shaw.”  The guy holds out a hand like he expects Mickey to shake it.  Mickey crosses his arms over his chest.  Undeterred, John barrels on.  “I do consultative work for companies that want to cater to the LGBT demographic.  I think I can help you change your image, if you want.  As a thank you.”

“The fuck would I want to do that?”

“I’ve seen the stories about you, Mickey.  I didn’t think much of it until these assholes here gave you a hard time for doing what you had to do.”  John purses his lips and shakes his head in disbelief.  “You’re a good guy, Mickey.  I can see it in your eyes.  I think you've just kind of had a bad reputation for the past ten years or so.”

“Yeah, well.”  Mickey doesn’t have anything really to say back to that, but it warms his heart a little.    

“And being the first openly gay superhero-”

Mickey scoffs.

“You're denying it?” John raises an eyebrow.

Mickey widens his stance and stares back.  John just holds up a finger while he uses his other hand to tap on his phone.  Then he turns the phone so Mickey can see and scrolls through a series of pictures from TMZ.  

They're of Mickey being bent over the sink, pants around his knees, by a muscular, freckled redhead.  A big yellow smiley face covers his goods.

“I can show you the uncensored ones if you want,” John offers, voice deadpan.

Mickey grimaces, but he can't argue with visual proof, even though he doesn’t even remember that night.  It isn't the first time he's picked up a stranger and it certainly won't be the last.  Honestly they all kind of blend together anyway.

“As I was _saying_ , aside from Captain America, you're the world’s first gay superhero.  And you're _kinda_ giving the rest of us a bad name, what with the random hookups and the alcoholism and the general belligerence.”  Mickey scratches at his nose, unable to refute any of it.  “So what do you say?” John wheedles.  “As a thank you for saving my life, I'll represent you.  Help you clean up your act a little, get some good press.  Maybe you could get a steady boyfriend too.”

Mickey sniffs.  He crushes his last beer can into a tiny aluminum ball, then effortlessly throws it the length of a football field.

“Don't do boyfriends.”

“Right.”  John glances at the pictures again and chuckles.  “That guy kinda looks like my husband.” He pockets his phone and stares Mickey down.  They just look at one another for a full thirty seconds, neither backing down.

“Fucking fine,” Mick relents first, but only because it's really fucking hot out and he's starting to feel the effects of all of the alcohol he's consumed today.  He just wants to lay the fuck down. “When do we start or whatever?”

“Great!” John has the look of someone who knew he was going to get his way all along.  “You can come back to my place, sober up a little and-”

“I got a place to live,” Mickey interrupts, affronted.

“Yes, and that's the first place the paps will look when the news breaks that you're being sued.  Again.”

Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Ain't like they can make me show up to court.”

“That's a great attitude to have,” John deadpans.  He tugs on Mickey's arm as if to steer him toward the car and jerks to a stop when Mickey doesn't move.  An essential brick wall.  “Come on, Mickey.  You can get away from all the staring eyes for a while.  Kick up your feet.  I've got great water pressure, and my husband makes a mean omelette.”

Home cooked meal.  Mickey hasn’t had one of those in - ever.  Or at least not the last thirty years or so.  And John seems like a decent guy.  Mickey hasn't meet a genuinely decent person in a long time.  Or maybe ever.

“Why would you want me to stay at your place?” Mickey asks suspiciously.  “What's in it for you?”

“Are you kidding?  You'd be my biggest client to date, by far!  Plus, I owe you, and it seems like you might need to spend a little time with people who appreciate you.”  It’s a nice thought, actually.  

“Whatever,” Mickey relents finally.

John pumps his fist in the air and beckons Mickey to his car.

“You really think this thing’s still gonna run?” Mickey speculates as they stare at the hood, crumpled like an accordion courtesy of  Mickey’s handiwork.  

“Only one way to find out.”  John goes to the driver’s side and attempts to turn the car over.  The car wheezes to life, but it doesn't sound so hot.  “I'll try to make it to a mechanic,” John sighs as Mickey joins him in the car, slamming the passenger door a little too hard.  “Buckle your seat belt,” John says breezily.  Mickey just raises an eyebrow.  What the fuck would he need to do that for?

“Captain America’s gay?” Mickey wonders aloud as John pulls the sputtering car back onto the road.  John rolls his eyes.

“ _Please_.”

 

Two and a half hours later, after a swap for a rental car and a quick stop at Mickey’s place to get a few things (John's asked him question after question about Mickey's day to day superhero shtick), the sky is dark as they finally pull into the driveway of an enormous, historic house in Beverly.

“Don't let the outside fool you.  It may be old, but Ian had it remodeled top to bottom.  Totally modern inside.”

“Who's Ian?” Mickey asks curiously. The name on his tongue sends a zap to his brain.

“My husband.  He’s an EMT so he’s gotta get up early for work.  They're probably in bed already.”

“They?”

“Ian and our son, Charlie.”

“So you guys are like really fucking gay together, huh? Kid and everything?”

John grins and half shrugs.

“What can I say, I'm living the dream.  Charlie’s mine from my first marriage, though.  My ex lives in California.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Mickey sympathizes.

“You don't even know him,” John chuckles.

“A, he lives in California, the asshole state.  And B, the kid’s here in Chicago, so.”  Seems pretty obvious to Mickey.  He can't imagine being a parent and living so far apart from his kid.  The thought stabs at his heart.

“Ian's gonna flip when I tell him you're here,” John says with glee as he leads them through the garage door and immediately down the stairs into the basement.  “He reads all the trashy news articles about you.  Honestly, I think he might have a thing for superheroes.”

Fuck.  He's met his share of exuberant fans.  Men (and women) who think they'll be the one to change him.  Who want to try out the whole superhero fantasy.  Sometimes he gets a decent fuck out of it, but usually it's just annoying.  At least this Ian guy’s got a husband.  Maybe it'll keep him from getting too creepy.

“How long you been married?” he wonders.

“Three years.  Just had our anniversary last month.”

“Huh,” Mickey says.

“I can't wait to get started,” John says excitedly.  “I want to pick your brain.  How do you feel about a new superhero name?”

“Honestly I just wanna sleep right now, man.”  He'd been feeling a little buzzed earlier from the alcohol he'd consumed today, but as they drove he'd started to feel better and better.  And the constant ache, the tightening in his chest he's felt since the day he woke up fifty years ago, has completely evaporated.  He's literally never felt this good.  

But he's also suddenly bone tired, yet peaceful.  It's a strange feeling. Like he's home.  Safe.  Like he can finally relax.

What the fuck.

John pauses. “Wait, you have to sleep?”

“I'm not a fucking vampire, Jesus!”

John holds up his hands in complacency, but he's smirking.

“Bedroom’s through there.”  John points to a dark bedroom through the enormous rec room with a giant flat screen and a wraparound couch.  And a wet bar.  Fucking jackpot.

“And bathroom’s over there.” Mickey follows as John points.  “Help yourself to anything.  What’s mine is yours.  I owe you my life!”

When John finally leaves him alone he takes a steaming hot shower, much better than the water pressure in his shithole of a house, and collapses into the softest bed in the fucking world.  

He's out in seconds.

He dreams about that redhead from the bar.  But this time they're fucking face to face.  The other man's features are blurry, out of focus, and they're in a barn, not a restroom.  Hay is poking Mickey uncomfortably in the ass as the redhead grunts above him.

“ _Mick_ ,” the guy groans.  “ _Mickey_.”


	3. Chapter 3

_He dreams about that redhead from the bar.  But this time they're fucking face to face.  The other man's features are blurry, out of focus, and they're in a barn, not a restroom.  Hay is poking Mickey uncomfortably in the ass as the redhead grunts above him._

_“Mick,” the guy groans.  “Mickey.”_

* * *

 

 

“Mickey.  Mickey!”

He jolts awake, throwing off the hand on his arm a little too hard, if the crash a moment later is anything to go by.

“What the fuck?” he groans as he blinks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  John is righting himself from his fall into the closet doors, rubbing his left arm and grimacing.

“You really aren't a morning person are you?” John teases, shaking his head as if to jostle away the little birdies floating above it.

“Instinct,” Mickey grunts, rubbing at his eyes with the pads of his fingers.  “Why the fuck did you wake me up?”

“It's Wednesday morning.”

“So?”

“You came home with me on Monday night,” John insists, awed.  “You've been sleeping for almost 48 hours!  I thought you might have died down here.”

Mickey snorts.  He fucking wishes.

Jesus.  He knew he was tired, but not that tired.  This has never happened to him before.  Not even after a bender.  Mickey stretches.  It must have been just what he needed though, because he feels fucking awesome.

He's also sporting an incredibly stiff erection, thanks to that dream from which he'd been so rudely interrupted.  The details are already blurring, like his dreams always do as he comes into consciousness.  

John must notice the tenting in the sheets too, because he coughs awkwardly, pointedly turning around.

“I'll uh, be upstairs, when you're ready.”

Mickey takes care of himself of course, leaning against the shower wall and squeezing his eyes shut as he masturbates, desperately trying to recall the details of his dream.  He settles for a lackluster orgasm, then changes into the clothes he’d picked up from his place the night before last.  They don’t smell so hot, but they’ll do.  Maybe he’ll scam John out of a couple new outfits.  For the Cause.

He stomps up the stairs a half hour later, and John’s loitering in the living room, seemingly waiting for him.  He grins when Mickey comes into view.  Is this guy ever not friendly?

“Come in and have breakfast.  You can meet my family before we head out.”  John gestures toward the kitchen.

“Let me have a smoke first.”

“Yeah, of course.  Out on the deck.”  John gives him the side eye.  “Surprised nicotine and alcohol affects you the same way as normal people.  You'd think you would have some sort of intolerance to it.”

“Just takes a little more to do the job,” Mickey says, shrugging.  John leads the way out onto the deck from the living room.  Mickey pats down his pockets and withdraws a loose cigarette and a lighter.  He leans against the railing and lights up, staring into the landscaped yard.  It's a much bigger lot than at his shitty place.  There's a soccer net out in the grass, a nice patio set on the deck, a grill.  These jokers must have a helluva lot of money.  John must make a killing, because he's sure EMTs don't make shit.

Mickey takes a deep inhale of his cigarette.

And coughs.

“The fuck?”  He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and inspects it carefully.  He's literally never coughed in the fifty years of life he can remember, and he's been a heavy smoker for all of them.

“Everything okay?” John asks, chuckling as Mickey observes his smoke. “You're  looking at that cigarette like it personally offended you.”

“I'm fine,” Mickey says, still gazing at his cigarette. He takes another experimental puff and waits, but it doesn't happen again.

“Used to smoke,” John says longingly.  “Ian made me quit.  Says it reminds him of his ex.”

“Here,” Mickey offers, handing it over.  “One pull won't kill ya.”

John grabs the cigarette eagerly and takes a deep inhale, nearly sucking the embers down to the filter.

“Ay, fuck you!” Mickey snaps without much heat.

“Sorry,” John says sheepishly, turning to stub the cigarette out in a potted plant.  “Oh, shit.  He caught us.”

Mickey turns to follow his gaze through the sliding glass door.  And his heart stutters.

He blames it on the expression on the guy’s face.  If looks could kill, and Mickey could die, well- he'd be really fucking dead.

“Sorry about that,” John says lowly.  “Listen.  I told you before that Ian would freak to find out you're here.  But he - sorta reacted badly.”

“No shit.”  Mickey can't look away.

“Think he's embarrassed to be star struck,” John tells him.  “He’ll warm up to you, I promise.”

Mickey nods absently, still staring at the angry redhead.  

The dude's totally fucking gorgeous.  Bright hair, more burnt orange than red, a little longer on the top and shorter on the sides.   Tall and lean, muscular arms on display as they're crossed over his chest.  And a beautiful, classic face.  It almost hurts to fucking look at him.

“Ian,” Mickey's mouth says automatically.

“Yep.  That's him.”  John grins at him like he's used to people having this reaction when they see his husband (and in all fairness, they probably do).  “Come on in and meet him.  I promise his bark’s worse than his bite.”

Somehow Mickey doubts that.  

“Hi family,” John says brightly, clapping his hands as he enters the room, Mickey trailing behind him and closing the sliding glass door after them.  “How's everyone this morning?”

“Are you him?”

Mickey'd been so busy staring at Ian that he didn't notice a kid, about ten, sitting at the table working his way through a stack of pancakes.  He's black, which Mickey wasn't expecting.

“This is Mickey!” John says cheerfully.

“Like Mickey Mouse?” the kid asks, eyeing him skeptically like he'd been expecting better.  Honestly, Mickey kinda gets that a lot.

“No, not like  fuckin’ Mickey Mouse,” Mickey snarks back at him.  John and Ian both give him a look - Ian's with significantly more heat.  “Like Mickey Mantle.”  The kid gives him a dumbfounded look, but Ian snorts like he's personally offended.  Mickey glares right back at him, because he didn't do shit to him, so what the fuck.

“Mickey, this is my husband Ian.  Ian, this is the one and only Mickey.”  John puts a hand in the middle of Mickey’s back and pushes, but Mickey doesn’t budge.

“Yeah, the superhero who was so blacked out drunk right before he was supposed to stop that jewelry robbery last year that he passed out before he could apprehend the thief?” Ian snarks.

“And what the fuck were you doing at the time?” Mickey snarls back.  “Sudoku in your fucking bathrobe?  Don't know why I even bother at all.  Bunch of ingrates, all of you!”  Jesus, the nerve of this guy.  John made it sound like Ian would be fawning all over him, not being aggressive as fuck.

“First of all, ixnay on the the uckfays please,” John interjects, stepping closer to Mickey.  “Second of all, we _do_ appreciate all you do to help people.  It can't be easy living in the limelight with all that pressure on you.  And you bother because you care about people.”

Ian snorts derisively and Mickey glares.  John sighs, and steps a little in front of his husband, blocking Mickey's view.

“Mickey, I apologize for Ian,” John stage whispers.  “He had a long day yesterday and wasn't happy I didn't talk to him about you staying here.”

“ _Ian_ is right here!” the ginger fuck snaps at John.

“ _Ian_ is acting like a jackass!” Mickey shouts back.  

Ian jerks forward like he's about to charge at him.  Mickey laughs in his face, because he'd like to see him fucking try.

“Woah!” John cries angrily, stepping forward again and gripping Ian by the shoulders.  “Easy, babe.”  John runs his hands up and down Ian's arms.   Mickey's chest burns strangely as he watches Ian's face soften when John calms him.  Mickey glances away, sniffing.

At the table, the kid takes another bite and looks on with a bored expression.

“Sorry,” Ian murmurs to his husband.  “You're right.  I've had a long couple days.  I'm not myself.”  And he turns fucking puppy dog eyes on John like it'll melt away all the tension.

It works.  John smiles and leans forward and the two of them kiss.  Ian opens his eyes and stares straight at Mickey as he thrusts his tongue into John's mouth, and suddenly they're making out as if they didn't have a stranger and their kid watching them go at it in their kitchen at 8 in the morning.

“You need me to leave?  Cover the kid's eyes or some shit?” Mickey snaps as the men suck each other's faces.  John jerks away like he's just remembered where they are.

“Jeez, sorry.”  He rubs at his swollen lips and chuckles sheepishly.  “We get carried away a lot.”

Ian smirks at Mickey like this should rile him up somehow.  And to be honest, it fucking does for whatever reason, but Mickey just shrugs as nonchalantly as he can muster.  Ian's face darkens.

“Eggs, Mickey, before we get started?” John asks.  “You can test out that omelette I bragged about.”

The suggestion of food makes Mickey's stomach rumble loudly, reminding him that he hasn't eaten since the fast food he and John had picked up on the way here Monday night.

“Sure.  I'm fu- I mean, I'm starving.”  Mickey sits down at the table with the kid, glancing his way apologetically, while John and Ian move farther into the enormous kitchen, whispering quietly but heatedly.  “What's your name again?” Mickey asks the kid to tune out the hushed words coming from the other men.

“Charlie,” Charlie tells him.  He looks up at Mickey curiously.  “So what can you do?”

“What do ya mean?”  Mickey snags a strip of bacon from the kid’s plate.  He could get used to eating like this every morning if the company (namely, Ian) weren't so shitty.  

“You know, your powers.  I know you have super strength.  Dad told me how you picked up his car and moved it out of the way of that train.  And I saw on TV when you saved all those people from that fire.”  Charlie giggles.  “You were naked.”

Mickey shrugs.  “Clothes ain't fireproof, little man.”

“So can you fly?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”  He knows that for a fact.

“Bet you wish you could fly,” Charlie taunts playfully.

“Nah, don't like heights too much.  Can climb or jump pretty high if I need to.”

“Cool,” Charlie says, like he starts every morning talking to a superhero.  This kid ain't so bad.  He reminds Mickey of something - someone.  Something hazy, like all of his memories trapped somewhere in his brain.  Mickey munches on his stolen bacon and Charlie puts even more syrup on his already drowning pancakes.

“How come you don't wear a mask or anything to protect your identity?” Charlie asks.

Mickey pauses, then goes with the truth, shrugging.

“Don't need to.  Don't got nothing to protect.”

“You don't want your privacy?” John asks, rejoining them at the table.  Mickey glances behind him and sees Ian at the stove.  He turns back around and shrugs again. He would kinda like to not have a dude with a camera outside his door at all times, but the way he'd burst into the limelight hadn't given much of an option for anonymity.

“Yeah well, hindsight’s 20/20,” Mickey concedes.

“Aren't you scared you’ll get hurt if people know who you are?” Charlie asks.

“Can't get hurt.  No weakness.”  Mickey helps himself to a gulp of Charlie’s OJ and ignores the look of mild disgust on John's face.

“Even Superman has a weakness,” John reminds him, leaning over to pointedly pour Mickey his own fresh glass of juice from the carafe.

“Not me.”  Mickey belches into his hand.

“You sure about that?” asks a voice over his right shoulder, then Ian plunks a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs in front of him.

“It's been working out so far so good,” Mickey says with a shrug, not even sparing Ian a glance and reaching for the fork.  It isn't an omelette, but he likes his eggs better scrambled anyway.  “Hey, you got any-” he doesn't even finish his sentence before Ian shoves a bottle of Tabasco under his nose.  “Uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” Ian says, voice softening suddenly.  Mickey gazes up at him in surprise.  Ian is looking down at him with a strange expression on his face.  Confusion, and something else.  “John,” Ian says suddenly.  “Would you mind taking Charlie to summer camp today?  I think I'm getting a migraine.”

John frowns and reaches out to touch Ian's forehead with the back of his hand like he's got a fever or something.  “Yeah, of course,” he says, because John’s just a stand up guy like that.  “Mickey, you stay and enjoy your eggs and I'll swing around and pick you up.”

Mickey grunts in acquiescence.  What the fuck does he care, really?

“Camp’s just ten minutes away at that big Evangelical church,” John tells Mickey, taking one last gulp of coffee before shooing Charlie away from the table.  “I'll be back in twenty.”

“Whatever.”  Mickey shrugs.  To Charlie, he says, “Have fun learning about God and shit.”

“It's branded as non-religious,” John corrects Mickey mildly.  “The brainwashing is more subtle than that.”

“Are you gonna be here later?” Charlie asks Mickey interestedly as he brings his dishes to the sink.

“Probably not,” Ian answers for him before Mickey can reply.  “Say bye to Mickey, Charlie.”  Charlie looks a little bummed, but he gets over it quickly.

“See ya,” he says, raising his hand in a half wave.  Mickey salutes back.

“Twenty minutes,” John reminds Mickey as he herds Charlie out of the kitchen.  “Feel better,” he murmurs to Ian, kissing him lightly before following Charlie.  Ian does that thing again where he looks triumphantly at Mickey.

“Thought you had a migraine,” Mickey says as Ian just stands there behind Charlie's empty chair a good thirty seconds after the front door closes.

“I don't get migraines,” Ian says, like the very idea is laughable and Mickey is stupid for falling for it.

Mickey shrugs.  Fuck this guy.

It's silent for several more heavy seconds.  Ian is just standing there, staring at him.  Like a fucking stalker.

Maybe that's it.

“So John says you're some kinda fanboy,” Mickey jibes, grinning wolfishly through a bite of eggs.

“Yeah I keep tabs on you, so fucking what?” Ian spits, shaking his head.  Man this asshole is so hot and cold, Mickey's head is spinning.  “You know, you are un-fucking-believable, showing up here like this, using John for your own gain-”

“Hold the fuck up! I'm not using anybody.  Your guy begged me to let him represent me or whatever.”

“Finally ready to stop being a drunken asshole vigilante, are you?” Ian snarls.

“I happen to like being a drunken asshole vigilante.  Speaking of, you got any booze?”

“Jesus, if anyone was gonna end up like Frank I figured it would be me.”  Ian groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Mickey stares at him, dumbfounded.

“The fuck?”  He wonders if it's possible he's still drunk from two days ago. Everything about this morning feels like he's one step behind.

Ian sighs.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to get the fuck out of my house now,” Ian says evenly, but his jaw is clenched, giving his rage away.  Mickey's dick twitches at the power in the unspoken threat, and he scowls, annoyed with himself.

“The fuck?” he says again.  “John's gonna be back any minute-”

“And stay the fuck away from John!” Ian roars.

Ah.  Mickey thinks he gets it, finally.  This is a jealousy thing.  He's been through this before.  Usually it's warranted, but John isn't really his type.  Ian's more his type, if he's honest with himself.

“Listen man, I don't know what you think, but I ain't fucking your boyfriend,” he tries to placate, pushing back his chair and standing.

“He's my husband, you piece of _shit_!”  Ian lunges, and Mickey's ready for it.  Mickey sidesteps him, but Ian's anticipated it, and he throws a hook with his right, landing on Mickey's jaw.

All of a sudden he feels heat around his mouth.  It doesn't feel good.  It kind of _hurts._

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathes.  He reaches up to touch his jaw.

Ian punches again with his left, and Mickey's jaw explodes on the opposite side.  

Mickey staggers.

“Fight back!” Ian roars.  He shoves Mickey in the chest and Mickey's back hits the wall.  Bits of drywall crumble to the floor.  Ian punches him in the gut and Mickey doubles over.

As a rule, Mickey doesn't go out of his way to beat the shit out of people weaker than him who don't really fucking deserve it, but he'll make an exception for this guy.

“You asked for it, asshole.”  He stretches his neck quickly from side to side before lunging forward and gripping Ian by the neck.

Ian's heavy.  Mickey can only get him a couple feet off the ground before he tosses him across the kitchen.

Ian lands with a sick thwack as his head bounces against the kitchen tiles.  Any other man would have stayed down, but Ian just groans and shakes it off, getting to his feet as quickly as he had gone down as he comes back for more.

Mickey's a little impressed, honestly.

They punch and block and kick, neither getting the upper hand, until Ian plays dirty and fucking karate chops Mickey in the neck.  Mickey stumbles back, more out of shock than anything, and Ian smirks.

No.  No fucking way.  He's not losing this fight.

Mickey lunges, using his whole weight to catapult the both of them through the sliding glass door.  Shards of glass rain around them as they tumble onto the deck.  They wrestle for the upper hand, rolling and kicking and punching, until finally Mickey's got him pinned, sitting heavy on Ian's shoulders as he reaches for the first thing he can grab, a potted plant that had somehow fallen in one piece off the patio table in the scuffle.

Below him Ian scrunches up his eyes, preparing for the blow.  And suddenly Mickey's hit by the most astounding case of deja vu.  He feels like he's been here before, in this exact position. Only instead of hitting the guy-

Mickey scrambles off of Ian as quickly as he can as heat rises to his cheeks and settles _other_ places too.

_Fuck. That._

He tosses the flower pot down onto the deck and Ian gets a face full of dirt as it shatters.  Ian stares up at him from the ground, a fleeting look of -disappointment?- crossing his face.

They sit there like that, breathing heavy.  And even though they'd just been trying to kill each other (maybe especially because they'd been trying to kill each other), Mickey suddenly feels so - _alive_.  He can feel the steady thumping of his heart in his chest, feel the blood coursing through his veins unlike ever before.

They get up from the ground simultaneously, the glass crunching under their feet.  Ian is barefoot, but he doesn't even wince as he stands there and surveys the damage.  He shakes his head and purses his lips.  Finally, he turns to Mickey.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”  His voice is level, but anger simmers under the surface.

“Gladly,” Mickey hisses back.   He shoves past Ian and stomps his way into the basement bedroom to grab his shit.  Ian follows closely behind him, still radiating anger.  “What, you worried I'm gonna steal something?” he snaps as Ian practically breathes down his neck while he packs his meager bag.

“Not like you haven't done it before,” Ian barks back.

“You think you know me, asswipe?”  Mickey, steps toe to toe with Ian, crowding less than an inch away from his face.  Ian sneers.  Steps away and deliberately turns his back, his message clear. _I’m not afraid of you_.

“I know you're a coward.”

For a moment, the world freezes.  Mickey can only stare, open mouthed and peculiarly hurt, for several seconds, until he snaps out of it, shoving past Ian with enough force to push him back a few paces.


	4. Chapter 4

Mickey jogs home, moving quicker and quicker the farther he gets away from John and Ian’s house.  His bag bounces awkwardly as he runs, but it doesn’t slow him down.  By the time he’s crossed into Back of the Yards he’s nearly as fast as the traffic on the roads.  He goes over the last few very strange days in his mind over and over.  Him sleeping two whole days away at John’s house.  Meeting John’s asshole husband, Ian, who had a strangely intense dislike for Mickey.  Fighting said guy.  And Ian had matched him hit for hit.  It’s the strangest fucking thing Mickey’s experienced, and he’s experienced _a lot_ of strange shit.  No one’s ever come even marginally close to matching Mickey’s strength.  Either Ian is as strong as Mickey, or Mickey’s getting weaker.  Both scenarios seem equally unlikely.

There’s one thing for certain, Mickey decides, as he finally enters his house and grabs a beer from the fridge, sitting in his well-worn spot on the couch: he’s never going to see that fucker Ian again.  Even if it means disappointing John.  How a nice guy like John ended up with an asshole like Ian, Mickey’ll never know.

That shitty, lonely feeling he's lived with for half a century begins to descend again as episode after episode of Friends reruns play on the TV.  Mickey ignores the squawking of the police scanner in the corner. He's all out of fucks to give for the people of Chicago right now.  Instead he digs into the pocket of his overnight bag for the one thing that brings a little comfort.

Fuck.

He dumps everything out on the couch and sifts through it, growing increasingly panicked as it becomes clear that the old Altoid tin is no longer in his possession.  

He knows where he left it.  He'd set it on the bedside table the night he'd fallen asleep.  He can't believe he forgot it.  Inwardly, Mickey groans.  He's gotta go get it.  So much for not seeing them ever again.

Mickey hauls himself off the couch and heads out immediately.  Better to get it over with.  He feels anxious without the tin in his possession.

"Mickey!”  John seems both pleased and concerned when he opens the door to see Mickey standing there.  “How are you?  Ian told me about what happened.”

Mickey's jaw drops a little.

“Uh, he did?”

“Yeah, of course.  That car crash at the end of the block?  Ian told me you saved the old couple’s lives.”  John laughs.  “Wish you didn’t have to smash through the sliding glass door to get there, though.”

Mickey just stares blankly until he gets with the program.  Ian had covered for him.  For them.

“Yeah,” he says finally.  ”Sorry I had to go.”

“Hey, no problem.  Saving lives comes first!” John grins.  

Well this is awkward.

“Listen man, this ain't gonna work out, you and me working together.  I just forgot somethin’ and was hoping I could grab it real quick.”  Mickey scratches the back of his neck and shuffles from foot to foot.  

John's face falls.

“Really?  I spent all day drawing up costume ideas and planning your first press conference!”

“Costumes and fucking press conferences?” Mickey repeats incredulously.  “Yeah, this really ain't working out, man.”

“What's going on?” Ian appears behind John in the doorway.  His voice has a hard edge to it, but he smiles at Mickey and puts a hand on John's shoulder.  “What’s he doing here?”

“Told your husband that we won't be working together no more,” Mickey says with a practiced shrug.

“Huh,” Ian says sympathetically, sneaking Mickey a sharp look as he rubs John's shoulder.  “Sorry to hear that.”

“Hmm,” Mickey agrees, raising his eyebrows to his hairline and pulling his lips into his teeth.

“So you couldn't have called to say that?” Ian asks.  John groans, breathes _not this again_.

“Forgot somethin’.”

“What is it?” Ian asks, folding his arms over his chest.  Mickey falters a little.  John's looking at him curiously too.

“It's uh, a tin.”  Mickey clears his throat.  “Old Altoid tin.  Think I uh- think I left it by the bed.”

“Wait here,” Ian says, glaring at Mickey suspiciously, then backing further into the house.

“I'm really bummed we won't be working together, Mickey,” John says sincerely as soon as Ian's gone.  “I hope it's not because of the way my husband’s treated you.  Honestly, I have no clue what's been going on with him lately.  Ever since you came home with-”

“Found it,” Ian calls loudly, bounding back into the room.

“Jesus, that was fast,” John comments, looking a little flustered by the interruption.  Mickey snatches the tin from Ian's hands and opens it carefully, peeking in to make sure the contents are still there and unharmed.

“I didn't open it,” Ian tells him a little defensively.

John and Ian are both watching him curiously, so Mickey shoves the tin back in his pocket where it belongs.  He looks up at John from under his lashes, unused to showing gratitude.  He almost wishes it would've worked out for John to represent him.  Almost.  

“Hey, uh- thanks for giving a shit.  About me.”  Mickey hesitates, then sticks out a hand for John to take.  Ian’s mouth drops open in shock at the gesture (probably thinking Mickey wasn't capable of civility or whatever) and Mickey can't help but smirk.  He likes surprising people.

“Thanks for giving a shit about the world, Mickey,”  John tells him sincerely.  Mickey grimaces and waves him off, then turns and heads down the walk.

“Hey Mickey!”  Mickey turns in surprise.  Ian’s got one foot over the threshold like he’s ready to chase after him.  “Stay for dinner?”

Both Mickey and John’s eyebrows go up in surprise.  Mickey searches Ian’s face for some sign of attitude, but the guy looks nothing but beautiful and genuine.  His pulse quickens a little.

“Depends,” Mickey calls back.  “What’re we having?”

John smiles, wide and genuine, and Ian's mouth goes up in the corners.  He looks pleased, but wary.

“Spaghetti and garlic bread,” John tells him.  “Charlie will be so excited!”  John turns back into the house, squeezing Ian's arm on the way by and calling for his son. Ian remains in the doorway for a beat longer, and it makes Mickey hesitate.  Finally, Ian gestures with the tilt of his head, and Mickey follows him into the brightly lit house.

“Hey, Mickey!” Charlie bounds up to him as Mickey comes in the door.  “You're back!”

“Uh,” Mickey says, shifting his weight.  The floor creaks under the strength of his shuffle.  “Just for dinner.”

“Cool.  Wanna kill some zombies with me?”

Mickey cranes his neck to see into the entrance to the kitchen, where Ian has disappeared.

“Great idea.”  John claps his hands together.  “You guys hang out and I'll see how things are going.”

Despite the relatively warm invitation, things grow awkward again as John and Ian move around the kitchen finishing up the meal prep, speaking in hushed voices to one another -definitely talking about Mickey.  Charlie and Mickey sit on the couch together playing video games.  Mickey is appallingly bad at them.

“You keep losing,” Charlie says matter-of-factly.  “Haven’t you ever played video games before?”

“Not really,” Mickey admits as his character gets eaten again.

“Time for supper,” John calls from the kitchen, and Charlie obediently pauses the game, then leads the way to the eat in kitchen.  Mickey glances at the plastic tarp taped around the doorframe where the sliding glass door once stood.  Ian catches his eye and shakes his head ever so slightly.  Mickey, nods back, but he furrows his brow a little in confusion.  Wouldn't Ian have leapt at the chance to tell John that they'd fought?  Claim Mickey attacked him or something?

“Do you have a wife?” Charlie asks Mickey as they load up their plates.

“No, I'm-” Mickey clears his throat, and just in case, he glances quickly at John, who nods.  “I'm gay, like your dads.”

“Ian's my step dad,” Charlie corrects, shrugging.  He pours so much grated cheese on his spaghetti that the noodles disappear.  Out of the corner of his eye Mickey sees Ian cast John a quick, hurt look.  “Do you have a husband then?” Charlie continues, oblivious.

“No,” Mickey says again. ”Just me.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

“Charlie-” Ian starts to scold, eyes sharp, but Mickey waves away his concern.  Kids are naturally curious.  He likes that about them.  At least they have the courage to ask about shit directly.  And for the short time he's known Charlie, he thinks the kid's pretty cool.

“Yeah, sure.  Not for a little while though.”

“Too busy saving the world?”  John grins through a bite of his salad.

“Guess so, yeah,” Mickey agrees vaguely.

Thankfully, John changes the subject to Charlie's day at summer camp.  Across the table, Ian won't stop _looking_ at him.  

Mickey feels for the tin in his pocket, his personal security blanket.  John and Charlie chatter on, either ignoring or unaware of the awkward tension in the air.

“What are you holding?” Charlie asks him suddenly, after minutes of Mickey hardly touching his food and doing a shitty job of pretending to listen to the conversation.  “You keep touching something in your pocket.”

Mickey flushes. John, Charlie, and especially Ian look at him curiously.

He hesitates.  But something in Charlie’s open, honest face makes him okay with sharing.

Carefully, he takes the old Altoid tin out of his pocket and opens it.  He stares down at the pair of old, faded movie tickets inside.  Then he turns the tin so Charlie can see.

" _Batman the Movie_?” Charlie reads slowly.  It's getting harder to make out the words as the years pass.

“Yeah.”  Mickey nods.  He swallows.  He glances up at John and Ian.  John's grinning, but Ian looks frozen.  Like a statue.

“That's Ian's favorite movie!” John says enthusiastically.  Mickey raises disbelieving eyebrows and Ian shrugs, sheepish.  Of all movies in the word, that one’s his favorite?  Mickey hasn’t seen it, but he figures it would be a little outdated for someone Ian’s age.  

“Is that your favorite movie too?” Charlie asks Mickey, peering at the faded tickets.

“Nah,” Mickey says, then backtracks.  “I guess I don't know.  I've never actually seen it.”

“What?” Ian asks throatily.  He looks like he's about to cry.  He must really fucking love this movie.  Mickey suddenly feels like he could cry too, looking at the emotion on his face.  It's strange.  

“I dunno, man.”  Mickey rubs the back of his neck.  He pauses.  He's never told anyone this before.  Not in interviews, not even to a partner.  But something about Charlie's open, honest face makes him feel willing to share.  “Woke up in fuckin’ 1966 in the hospital with these tickets in my pocket.  Nothing else on me.”

“Wait a minute,” John says, squinting for a second.  “You're over _fifty_ years old?”

“Really? That's what surprises you most about me?”  Mickey raises acerbic eyebrows at him.

John huffs a laugh.  “Guess not.”

“So why'd you have the tickets if you didn't see it?” Charlie asks, sucking up his last spaghetti noodle loudly.

“Guess maybe I saw it.  Can't remember.” Mickey  shrugs.  “Doctor said I was shot in the head.  Amnesia or whatever.  When I woke up I couldn't remember anything about anything.”  Ian makes a noise in the back of his throat.  Mickey glances at him, but continues.  “Was in a coma for a while, wasn't looking good -then all of a sudden I just started healing myself.”

“Wow,” Charlie says, awed.

“Amnesia,” Ian repeats softly, hollowly.

“Wow,” John echoes his son.  “It's like the plot from a movie.”

Mickey shrugs.  

“So you don't remember _anything_ before 1966?” John asks.  He looks genuinely, morbidly excited about that thought.  Mickey rubs his bottom lip.

“Sometimes there'll be things.  Moments, where I feel close to remembering something.  Like it's just out of my reach.”  Mickey lifts a hand and grasps at the air.  Then he realizes how fucking stupid he looks, and he laughs shortly.  “Guess that's why I keep these stupid fucking tickets.  They're the only reminder of my life before.”  He scoffs and tosses the tin carelessly on the table, although he immediately regrets it.  Those are his most prized possessions.

Across from him, Ian reaches out and picks up the tin almost reverently.

"There's two tickets,” he says looking down at them.  “You were with someone before the accident.”

“Obviously not someone important,” Mickey snaps.  Ian purses his lips.

“Then how do you know your name, huh?  If you don't remember anything?” Ian presses.  Jesus, this guy is a piece of work.

“Nurse said they asked me my name, when the ambulance came for me.  Last thing I said before I lost consciousness.”

Ian stares, unblinking, at Mickey's face.  “Oh,” he says.

“You must have had parents,” John reasons, leaning forward in his chair.  “Brothers and sisters.  Did you ever try to find them?”

“I didn't read anything about you in the papers,” Ian insists abruptly.  “Nothing about a guy surviving getting shot in the head and waking up not knowing who he was.  Wouldn't that get news coverage?”

“Maybe in the sixties it did,” John reasons, and Ian flushes.  To Mickey, John asks, “You've never told anyone?”  Mickey shakes his head.

“I woke up from a gunshot wound to the back of the head.  Wasn't exactly interested in someone coming back to finish the job.”

“Don't you have superpowers though?” Charlie pipes in suddenly.  “How did someone even hurt you?”

Mickey doesn’t have an answer to that.  It’s something he’s wondered himself for fifty years.  He just pulls his lips into his teeth and shrugs.

“Maybe it was some sort of reaction to the medication they gave you?” John suggests.  Mickey shrugs again.  He’d thought of that too.  “Or maybe it’s some sort of trait passed down from your parents,” John tries again.  “They never came looking for you?”

Mickey's body tenses, and he can't mask the fleeting wince.

“That’s the worst part.”  Mickey swallows, staring at his plate.  “I mean, I know I’m a fucking asshole.  People don’t like me, whatever.  But the worst part is knowing that no one claimed me.  No one was waiting for me.  No missing person's report, nothing.”

The silence is heavy.  Mickey chances a glance up, and both Charlie and John are staring at him, Charlie open mouthed, and John with chagrin.

“Excuse me,” Ian says suddenly, chair screeching against the floor as he pushes away from the table.  Mickey and John both frown as Ian makes a beeline out of the kitchen.

“He okay?” Mickey asks, turning back to John.

“He doesn’t have any family either,” John replies sadly.  “Just an uncle left.  He probably just got a little emotional.”

Mickey cranes his neck in the direction Ian disappeared.  He feels kinda bad.

“You gonna go see if he’s okay?”

“He just needs his alone time sometimes.”  John gives Mickey a soft smile.

‘Yeah, Ian cries a lot,” Charlie adds, and Mickey frowns.  John cuffs him on the back of the head playfully.  The father-son moment causes bile to rise in the back of Mickey’s throat.  “Can I go play video games in my room now?” Charlie asks.

“Clear your plate first,” John orders, and Charlie obeys, grabbing his plate and dumping it in the sink before he clomps up the stairs.

“Your kid’s pretty awesome,” Mickey praises John, unable to keep the jealousy from his voice.  He doesn’t get where these feelings are coming from, honestly.  He likes kids as much as the next single guy, but the thought of them has never made him almost tear up before.

“Got pretty lucky,” John agrees.  “The split with my ex has been hard on him.  Ian’s been a godsend.  He’s a real natural with him.  Even when Charlie isn’t always kind to him.”

“Hey,” Ian says, re-entering the room and stopping short when he sees it’s just Mickey and John.  “Where’s Charlie?”

“The video games were calling.”  John rolls his eyes, then he narrows them in concern.  “You okay.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian lies.  “Just had to go to the bathroom.  Listen, I was thinking.  Let's watch it.”

Mickey and John exchange furtive looks.

“What?” John asks, puzzled.

“Batman.  Let's watch it and see if it jogs Mickey's memory.”  Ian’s eyes are bright with anticipation.  Mickey kind of feels like an idiot for never even considering doing that after all these years.

“That’s a great idea!”  John’s face lights up, and he turns expectantly to Mickey.  “What do you think, Mickey?”

Mickey hesitates.  It’s a good idea, actually, but it’s maybe something he should do on his own.  It feels too personal to open up a potential can of worms with near strangers chomping on popcorn a couch away.  Because he’s always had a feeling that his life before wasn’t that peachy.

“Don’t think I’m up for it,” Mickey says honestly, and Ian’s face falls.

“Don’t you want to know more about your life?” he wheedles.

“Course I do,” Mickey insists.  “Just don’t know if now’s the right time.”  

“Maybe he’d rather do it on his own,” John suggests, touching Ian’s elbow.  Ian ignores him, turning pleading, mossy green eyes on Mickey.

“Whatever,” Mickey relents, shaking his head to clear the sudden tickle of faint deja vu.  It’s been happening a lot lately, ever since Mickey saved John’s life.

“I’ll grab Charlie,” John says brightly.  “Ian, you make the popcorn.”

It’s strange, being a guest during an obvious frequent family routine.  Ian puts the movie in and Charlie hoards the popcorn bowl, taking the chaise portion of the enormous sectional with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around his legs.  John commandeers the middle of the couch, stretching his legs onto the cushioned ottoman, and Ian hesitates for just a moment before sitting next to him.

“Sit wherever, Mickey,” John offers.  Awkwardly, Mickey takes the recliner adjacent to the couch.  It’s not a great view of the TV, but it feels a little more appropriate than cozying up on the couch with the family.

“Next time I get to pick the movie,” Charlie whines as the introduction music begins.  “These special effects suck.”

“Listen to the film critic over here.”  John knocks shoulders with his husband.  “Have some respect, it's a classic,” he scolds his son teasingly for Ian’s benefit, smiling indulgently at his husband.  He turns to look at Mickey.  “Anything yet?”

“Chill out, man, the movie just started,” Mickey says a little more snippily than he intended, but John doesn’t seem offended.  He’s also unclenched about the swearing thing too, which is good, because Mickey can’t fucking help it.

Charlie's right, the effects are bad.  Mickey concentrates hard, anxious to sense any hint of recognition.

Mickey turns his head a little to the left and meets Ian's gaze.  The other man's eyes are brimming with unshed tears.

Mickey's chest constricts, and he has to drag his eyes away, only to bring them back a second later.

It hits him like a brick.  There's something.  He doesn't know what.  But it's painful and confusing and it's too much.

“Mickey?  You alright?” John is leaning toward him, concerned.  John's hand is on Ian's knee.

Mickey feels like he might vomit.  It's a new sensation, but he's certain that's what he's feeling as his stomach threatens to come up out of his throat.  He launches himself off the couch and up the stairs, splintering a kitchen chair in his haste to make it to the sink just in case.  He hunches over, breathing heavy as he wills his stomach to go back down his throat and settle where it belongs.

“Mickey.”  Ian's voice is calm and authoritative, and Mickey turns instinctively as Ian approaches, John at his heels.  Ian stands a little in front of John, hands passively at his sides.  They’ve both followed him. “Breathe.”

“Don't fucking touch me,” Mickey snaps.  Ian frowns.

“I'm not.  I won't.  You need to breathe.  Focus on taking deep breaths, alright?”

Mickey is crawling out of his skin.  He grips the counter, and it cracks under his palm.

“I can't-”

Ian puts an arm out to keep John from coming any closer as he attempts to step forward.

“Breathe, Mick.  Real slow, in and out.”  Ian takes a deep breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth, gesturing for Mickey to imitate.

 _Mick._   Something about that nickname.  They way Ian says it.

He needs to get out of here.

“I gotta go.”  Mickey pushes past the both of them, ignoring each of their words of protest as he makes a beeline for the front door.  For open space.  Room to breathe.  It feels like all he does is run these days.


	5. Chapter 5

He stops a carjacking on the way home, mostly to get his mind off of things, and it helps, for a while, until he rounds the corner on his dark block.  Most of the street lights have been shot out and he likes it that way.  Makes him less easy to spot by the cameras.  Blessedly, there are no paps around as Mickey finally trudges up his front steps. The best part about living in Back of the Yards is that paparazzi and gawkers tend to fuck off as soon as the sun starts to set.

Old man Hayworth is smoking a cigar on his front stoop.  Mickey nods in greeting and Hayworth flips him off.

“Yeah, fuck you too buddy,” Mickey grumbles as he unlocks his door and steps inside.

He goes straight for the fridge to grab a beer and plops down on the couch, not even bothering to turn on a light.  He rubs experimentally at his chest.  Even though he feels better, more in control than he had at John and Ian’s, that feeling of hollowness, of being stretched too tightly that he's felt his entire life (that he can remember) is returning, though not as strong as before.

He thinks about his last few days, how being with John and his family had felt like home in a strange way, even with Ian's hostility.

Ian.  The thought of him tightens a knot in his throat.

He knows him.  He _knew_ him.  And he thinks he knows how.

A sharp knock at the door pulls him out of his reverie.  He ignores it, of course, because who the fuck would need to talk to him right now?  But the knocking continues, growing more insistent as time passes.

“Go the fuck away unless you want my foot up your ass!” Mickey yells in the direction of the door.

There's a pause, then a man says back, “Didn't know you were into that sorta thing.”

Who the fuck?  Mickey gets his ass of the couch, because he's half curious, half angry, and he throws the door open prepared to smash another camera to smithereens, when the face of the person on the other side of the threshold stops him cold.

He should have known.

Ian is standing there, shrouded in a giant hoodie and baseball cap, clearly angling to not be noticed by any curious onlookers. He's still sort of faintly smiling, but there's something else, too, in his face.  Many somethings.  He looks hopeful, pained, nervous.  Mickey drops his eyes to Ian's shoulder.  The air is heavy.

“Mickey.”  Mickey shifts his weight, blinking back the sharp sting of tears threatening to fall at the sound of the break in Ian's voice.  “Mick.  Tell me you remember me,” Ian pleads.

Mickey looks back into Ian's beautiful face, searching, searching for anything he's dreamed and felt and seen and smelled over the last fifty years that might remind him.

“I don’t,” he says honestly, and Ian’s face falls.  “But I do, too.  It’s fucking- I don’t-”. Mickey stops.  He can't explain it - this sudden understanding that they'd once been something to each other.  With a start, he realizes something else.  “You’re like me.”  The reason Ian could go toe to toe with him in a fight.  The reason they were able to hurt one another.  Fuck, he’s an idiot.

“Yeah.  I’m like you.”  Ian puts a hand on his arm and Mickey's skin tingles where they touch.  Quickly, Ian pulls away, like he felt it too.  “Can I come in?”  Mickey hesitates, then steps back to let him into the house.  When he turns around, Ian is surveying Mickey’s living room with a sardonic smile.  Instantly, Mickey’s hackles rise.

"You got a problem with the way I live?” Mickey demands.  Ian turns sharply, eyes shocked but sincere.

“Course not, Mick,” he insists.  Mickey winces at the continued use of that nickname.  “I just think it’s funny.  You live just a few blocks from where we grew up.”

“We grew up together?”

Ian nods.  “Yeah.  All this time, I thought you were just living in our old neighborhood to rub it in my face.  Like a giant fuck you.”  He shakes his head ruefully.  “Maybe your mind remembers more than you think it does.”

Mickey shrugs.  The idea that his subconscious is hiding important shit from him doesn’t sit well.

“All this time,” Ian says again disbelievingly.  “All this fucking time I thought you were just choosing to be away from me.  But this-”  Ian pushes his fist hard into his lips in an attempt to control his emotions.  “This is so much worse.”

Mickey’s seen that look before on Ian,  He’s certain of it.  That pained, helpless look.  The urge is strong to rush to Ian’s side, hold him in his arms, but there’s anger and a growing sense of betrayal coursing through Mickey’s veins too.

“Tell me what happened,” Mickey demands.  Ian nods and takes a deep breath.

“We were on vacation.  In Minnesota.  Duluth.”

“That's where I woke up,”

“Yeah.  We were always real careful.  Acting like buddies in public.  But we'd been hiding so long, sometimes it got hard.  We had to get out of the city.  We just wanted to be together.  A couple that doesn’t hide.”  Ian sits heavily on the couch, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt down and yanking the baseball cap off of his head.  Mickey remains standing, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So what, were we getting it on in an alley or something?”  He wouldn’t put it past himself, honestly.  He’s pretty much an expert at fucking in alleys.

Ian grins genuinely for a second.  “No.  I mean, yeah, we definitely did that a lot, but this time we were just walking back to the hotel from the movie.  We weren’t even fucking touching each other.”  Ian’s face sobers and he swallows, dropping his gaze.  “They cornered us.  In an alley, after the movie.  Five of them.”

Mickey scoffs.  He could take five guys with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.

Ian shakes his head.  “We weren’t like we are now.  We’d been together for years.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mickey demands.

“The longer we're near each other, the more we lose our immortality.  So we can live our lives together.  Grow old together.”

Mickey inhales sharply through his nose.  It’s all he’s ever wanted.  To live a normal life.  Grow old.  Pass on, when the time was right.  He could have had that.  All this time.

“Anyway,” Ian continues,  “these guys attacked us.  And we'd always had this plan, if something were to happen.  That we'd try to separate ourselves as soon as possible.”

“So you ran.”  He doesn't think he means for it to come out accusatory, not really, but Ian bristles anyway.

“No!  I stayed and I fought back!  Until one of them pulled a gun.”  Automatically, Mickey reaches a hand back to touch the scar behind his ear, and Ian tracks the movement, swallowing.  He says quietly, “It was either stay, and die right then and there, or run.  And hope that the distance would save us.”

Mickey can picture it.  He’s not sure if it’s a memory or his imagination, but he can see himself, can see Ian as they fight for their lives.  One of Ian’s eyes is swelling shut.  His nose is broken.  And Mickey can feel the panic roiling in his gut as the biggest of them all pulls out a handgun.

“I yelled for you to run,” Mickey hears himself say, and as the words are coming out of his mouth he knows they’re true.  Ian makes a low noise in his throat and closes his eyes.

“They didn’t even bother chasing after me,” says Ian bitterly.  “I heard the shot-” his voice breaks and his breathing stutters, and Mickey can't resist any longer.  He sits next to Ian and presses their knees together.  “I could feel you dying as I ran.  And I just kept running, because it was our only chance.”  He raises red rimmed eyes to Mickey's face.

So that explains what happened.  Why he was injured, why he'd survived.  But it doesn't explain the most important part.

”Why didn't you come looking for me?”  Mickey demands.  “Why didn’t you come to me when I was in the hospital?”

“I tried!” Ian cries.  “I went home to Chicago, to wait for you so you could heal, and you never came home.  So I went back to Duluth.  I asked around at every hospital, I combed the fucking city.  I went everywhere you have _ever_ been to find you again!  You fucking- you just disappeared!”

“But I came back!” Mickey yells.  “I've been here in Chicago with my picture splashed on every newspaper for thirty fucking years, asshole!  You knew about me!  You knew I was right here,”  Mickey accuses.  “And you- you let me fucking believe that I was alone.”

“You think I didn't come to you the fucking minute I saw your picture?” Ian roars back.  “Well I fucking did, alright?  You were wasted, and you took one look at me and yelled at me to get the fuck away from you!”

Mickey blanches.  It sounds like something he would do.  It hadn't been the greatest of times in his life, when he'd first been discovered.  Not that things are so peachy now.

“Well I didn't recognize you,” he retorts back weakly, and he watches Ian's anger deflate into something that looks like misery.

“I should have tried harder,” Ian chastises himself, shaking his head.  “I should have kept coming back.  But I was so angry that you'd thrown our life away.”  Pleadingly, Ian insists, “Mickey, I had no idea you didn’t remember me!  I just thought you didn’t want to be with me!”  Ian’s eyes are so green, his beautiful face so sincere, that Mickey's shoulders sag under the weight of his gaze.

“Fuck,”  Mickey says after a long beat of silence, rubbing a palm down his face.  “You uh, wanna get high or something?”

Ian laughs sharply in shock, wiping stray tears from his eyes.

“Yeah.  Sure.”

Mickey leaves Ian on the couch to grab his stash in his bedside table.  Ian seems like the type to push the limit at pot, so he leaves the harder stuff for later.

“You know how to roll a joint?” he asks, tossing the baggie at Ian when he returns to the living room.  Ian catches it against his chest and smirks.

“Please.  I can roll tighter than you.  Always could.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey barks in amusement.  “Believe that when I see it!”  Ian accepts the challenge with a grin, yanking the coffee table up to his shins and getting to work.  Mickey stands there like a creep, watching Ian’s long fingers as he packs and rolls.  Ian brings the paper up to his mouth and licks.

“Fuck,” Mickey says aloud again for no particular reason as he enjoys the view.  Ian holds the joint out to Mickey proudly, then starts again when Mickey takes it from him.  Mickey collapses on the couch next to Ian and lights up, pulling the smoke into his mouth and holding it there for several seconds, then blowing it out in a long, thin stream.  Ian snatches the lighter from Mickey's hand and lights his own, hollowing his cheeks with his inhale.

“Haven’t gotten high in years,” Ian admits throatily as he exhales.  “This is good shit.”

“Perks of my job.  I know the best dealers.”

The two sit in silence.  Mickey enjoys the faint buzzing of the high, but gestures for the supplies when his joint dies.  It’s always taken a lot of whatever, be it drugs or alcohol, to get him where he wants to be.  He imagines Ian is probably the same way.  Ian reaches for Mickey’s new joint as soon as Mickey’s taken his first puff.  Back and forth they pass it, until Mickey feels good.  Real good.  He rubs at his chest.  He feels lighter than ever, but there’s a new sensation, too.  It pulses in his chest and spreads through his veins.  Like how he felt when he and Ian had fought.  Like being alive.

Hard to believe that had been just this morning.

“That’s me,” Ian says lazily, watching Mickey as he rubs his sternum.

“Huh?”

Ian gestures to Mickey’s chest.  “You know that feeling in your chest you get?  Like a bungee cord pulled real tight, dragging you somewhere you don't wanna go?”  He mimes tugging on a rope over his heart.

Mickey gapes.

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

Ian sighs, a strange mix of contented and sad.

“I feel it too.  It's how we were made.  Designed.  To help us find one another.  Yours is stronger though, always has been.”  He eyes Mickey curiously.  “You move around a lot?   After the accident?”

“Yeah,” Mickey admits freely.  “Couldn’t really get comfortable anywhere.”

“That was cuz of me,” Ian says again.  “Calling you home, or whatever.”  He waves a hand dismissively.  Then he snorts.  “For all the good that did.”

“Hey,” Mickey snaps, though it comes out a little more sluggish sounding than he’d intended.  “I’m not the one who went and got married.”  Ian rolls his eyes.

“Excuse me for waiting almost fifty years to move on from your stupid ass,” Ian snips back.  “You telling me you haven’t had a single relationship since ‘66?”

“Whatever,” Mickey relents, because Ian's got a point.  Mickey hasn’t been a monk and he doesn’t feel bad about it.  He doesn’t blame Ian for moving on, either.  At least John’s a good guy.   “Bet you couldn't get enough of my stupid ass.”

“You’d be right,” Ian agrees with feeling, looking Mickey up and down salaciously.  Mickey laughs even as he feels his pulse quicken.  But Ian’s teasing gaze quickly turns pensive again, and he stares hard at Mickey's pecs.  “Can I see it?” he asks.

“See what?”  For a second he's sure Ian's still talking about his ass.

“Your tattoo.”  Ian nods towards the spot directly over Mickey's heart.  Mickey scowls.  He's never liked that thing.

“No.”

“C’mon, Mick,” Ian wheedles, the faint hint of a smile on his lips.  “I'll show you mine.”  He raises his shirt up to his ribs and turns to the side.

Holy fuck.

Mickey pulls down his own t-shirt to stare at his matching rope and anchor tattoo over his heart.

“To symbolize togetherness.  Being joined to one another.  We got them together in the twenties,” Ian tells him.  “ Do you remember?”

Mickey searches his brain for some sort of memory to hit him, like what had happened previously -  but nothing.  He scrubs at his face and groans in frustration.

“Thought I might have been in the Navy or some shit?” It comes out like a question.  Honestly, Mickey's not sure of anything anymore.

“Army, actually.”  Ian smirks.  “World War One.  And World War Two.”

Mickey gapes at Ian.

“How fucking old am I?”

“117 if you want to get technical.  I'm 115.”

Mickey whistles.

Ian opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking torn.  Pained.

“What?” Mickey demands, already feeling on edge, a sense of dread.  He knew something wasn't right in his past life. He fucking knew it!

Ian takes a breath.  “You enlisted for World War One.  We were- it's a long story, but it wasn't a good time for us, and you kinda ran away to the army.  I wasn't old enough to join.  I tried, and I got caught.”   He reaches out and brushes his index finger over Mickey's chest, where the nautical tattoo rests under his shirt.  Mickey's torn between flinching away and leaning into the touch.  He settles for gnawing on his lip.

“So what about World War Two then?”

This is what Ian doesn't want to tell him.  He can see it in the way his eyes skirt around Mickey's face.

“You enlisted,” Ian says softly. “Because of Yevgeny.”

“Because of _who_?”  Mickey's voice rises on instinct.  He's met a few Yevgenys before, during his time in Eastern Europe.  Something about that name has always sent a shiver of inexplicable recognition and grief through his body.

Ian closes his eyes, overcome.  When he opens them, he's blinking back tears.

“Yevgeny.  Your son.  Our son.”

A cold wave washes over him.  His heart stutters in his chest.

“What?”

“Yevgeny wanted to enlist, and you didn't want him going over there without you nearby to protect him so-”

“Hold up!  Fuckin’ _what_?  My son?”

Ian goes white.

“Uh, maybe I should've started from the beginning.  I’m really high right now.”

“Well sober the fuck up and start talking,” Mickey snaps.  Ian swallows and nods.

“Can I maybe have some water?”

Mickey huffs and catapults himself off the couch, stomping into the kitchen.  The first glass he grabs shatters in his hand, and he tosses the shards into the sink and fills up another dusty glass with water from the tap.  It takes effort not to shatter this one too.  His hands are shaking.  Fuck.

“Here.”  He shoves the glass into Ian’s hands and it sloshes all over him.  Ian doesn’t complain, just tips his head back and takes four long gulps, then carefully sets the empty glass on the coffee table.  

“Like I said,” he starts slowly, “we grew up together, you and me.  Just a few blocks south of here.”

“Were we friends or whatever?”

“No.”  Ian laughs.  “The first time we really interacted was when you came after me for messing with your sister.”

“You did what?”  It’s strange, the sudden sense of brotherly protection he feels for a girl he doesn’t remember.  Ian rolls his eyes.

“Relax.  Obviously I didn’t touch her.  It was, uh, a misunderstanding.”

“So what, did I beat the shit out of you?”

“You tried,” Ian taunts.  “But we ended up fucking instead.”

“So if you and me were together, how did I get a kid?  Did I like chicks too or somethin’?”  Fuck all the rest right now.  He needs to know about his son.

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.

“You got married because you had to.  To protect yourself.”

“Protect myself?  From who?”

Ian shrugs.  “Everyone?  It was practically the turn of the century.  Not exactly gay friendly.”  Ian picks at some invisible lint on his hoodie and avoids Mickey’s eyes.

“I don't get it.  Couldn't I have just got away from you for a while to take care of business?”

“We were only just starting to understand who we were, what we could do then.  And we lived so close to one another  - it's complicated.”  Ian waves away Mickey's concern like it's unimportant.  Like the details of Mickey's life don't matter.

“There's shit you ain't telling me,” Mickey accuses.  Ian's eye skirt to Mickey’s face, then they flit away again.

“Maybe there's shit you don't need to know.”

“Fuck you!” MIckey bellows.  “How is that fucking fair?  Just because I can’t remember don’t mean you get to decide what to tell me!”

Ian turns puppy dog eyes on Mickey, the same he’d seen Ian use just this morning on John.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Mick.”

Jesus, if just a wounded look from Ian can affect him like this now, when he barely knows the guy, he can’t imagine what a pussy he must have been when they were actually together.

“Tell me,” he pleads, changing tactics.  “Tell me about my son.  Didn’t he wonder why I never came back?  Did he know about us?  Was he like us?  Fucking tell me!”  He's dead by now, certainly, or very, very old. 

“He knew about us, but he was-” he struggles to find an appropriate term to use “- human. Mortal.  We raised him, Mick.  And he was a little shit like you and so fucking smart.”  Mickey wipes furiously at his cheeks, suddenly wet with tears of mourning for the son he can’t remember.   Ian’s voice cracks with emotion.  “He wanted to fight.  He enlisted right after Pearl Harbor.  You were so pissed off.”  Ian shakes his head ruefully.  “You wouldn’t talk to him for a week.  But you decided you couldn’t let him go over there alone.”  Ian sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“He died over there, didn’t he?” Mickey asks hollowly, knowing in his gut the answer without needing to hear it.  “He died and I came back.”

“Yeah.”  Ian nods.  “Mickey, I’m sor-” Mickey jerks away as Ian reaches out a hand to touch him.  He paces the living room while Ian stays seated, wringing his hands in his lap.  “It fucked us up for a while after.  Especially you,” Ian tells him after a beat.  “But we dealt with it together.”  He shifts in his seat.  “It was a different time, Mickey.  Dying for your country was an honor.”

Mickey sits down heavily, burying his head in his hands.  After a beat he feels Ian’s hand lightly brush the back of his neck, and he jerks a little in surprise.

“Sorry,” Ian says quietly, pulling back.  “I keep forgetting.”

Mickey turns to look at him, really look at Ian.  The other man looks sorrowful and resigned, and Mickey feels for him.  It’s gotta be hard, knowing the person you once loved can’t remember a lick of your past together.  Even the child you shared.

“I’ll tell you everything, Mick,” Ian assures him softly.  “Everything you want to know.”

Mickey closes his eyes again.  He wishes Ian would stop calling him that.  It feels too intimate.  It’s too much.

“Not tonight,” he says finally.  “I just gotta - not tonight.”

“Yeah.”  Ian shifts away from him subtly.  “Yeah, I should go too.”

“Where’s John think you are right now?” Mickey wonders, and Ian winces infinitesimally.

“He knows I get like this sometimes.  Gives me my space.  He trusts me.”

“He's a good guy,” Mickey says.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees.  “He loves me and he's good to me.  If -if it matters to you.”  Ian peeks at him through his lashes, hopeful.

“Sure,” Mickey says, after a beat.  “Yeah, course it does.”  He doesn’t want to think about it right now.  The fact that once they loved one another enough to fight societal norms and to raise a child together and to get matching fucking tattoos, and now they’re barely a step up from strangers.

He can’t deny there’s attraction between them though.  More than attraction, maybe.

He shakes his head and rises, and Ian follows suit.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Ian tells him.  “There's some things I wanna show you.  Is that okay?”

Mickey's chest suddenly tightens involuntarily at the thought of Ian leaving him right now.  Going back to his husband.  Even though he asked for his space.

“Yeah,” is all he says, swallowing.

Ian looks as pained as Mickey feels.  

“I'll buy us a few days.  If you want.  I'll tell John I have to go to Wisconsin to visit my great uncle.”

“You have an uncle?”

“My brother, Lip.   He's like us.  He lives in Milwaukee now.”

Mickey scrunches up his nose on instinct.

“The fuck kinda name is Lip?”

Ian laughs loudly but doesn't answer the question.

“See you tomorrow, Mick,” he says instead, and he puts the baseball cap down over his eyes and lets himself out the front door, only looking back once with a soft smile before closing the door behind him.

Mickey pays close attention to the feeling in his chest as Ian moves through the city, and the stretch in his chest finally settles an hour later.  It's not painful, just unpleasant.  Exactly as he's felt for the last fifty plus years.

The urge to drink himself to sleep, to be able to forget about everything he's learned for the moment, is strong.  Mickey allows himself two fingers of whiskey -which doesn't do a thing to numb the ache- and then collapses onto his bed.

He dreams he’s chasing a blue eyed little boy down the streets of Chicago.  He runs and he runs, but he can’t catch up.  The boy keeps turning his head to look at him, beckon him closer, laugh with glee, but he keeps getting farther and farther away, until he turns the corner and disappears.  Mickey shouts and searches until his throat aches and his legs give out, but the boy never reappears.


	6. Chapter 6

“Morning,” Ian says, pushing past Mickey into the house as soon as Mickey opens the door the day after their reconnection.  “You got a camera out there.”  He jerks his thumb in the direction of the street.

“No, come right on in,” Mickey deadpans, shaking his head as he slams the door.

“Took you long enough to answer the door.”  Ian removes his baseball cap and unzips the same hoodie from last night.

“I was sleeping, asshole.  What fucking time is it, anyway?”

“It’s nine.”  Ian rolls his eyes.  “Time to rise and shine, don’t you think?”

“Couldn’t sleep too well,” Mickey confesses, scratching the back of his head.  “Went to a couple calls last night.”  Nothing like saving a dozen or so lives from an apartment fire to keep your thoughts occupied.

Ian bends down and retrieves a charred t-shirt from the living room floor, holding it out with one finger, then dropping it again.  “Jesus.”

Mickey ignores him, instead shuffling into the kitchen in search of something to eat.  He manages to scrounge up a donut and a half, leftover from the dozen he’d bought nearly a week ago.

“Breakfast of champions, huh?” Ian teases, leaning against the doorjamb.

“You got a reason for being here besides makin’ smartass comments?” Mickey snarks back, brows raised in challenge.

Ian’s smile fades a little.

“Told you I wanted to show you something, remember?”

“Right.”  Mickey takes the last gulp of orange juice from the carton in the fridge, then tosses the empty carton into the overflowing trash can.  “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise,” Ian says.  “You up for it?”

“You gonna tell me more of what I need to know?”

“Told you I’d tell you everything,” Ian says earnestly.  “I’m so sorry about yesterday, Mick.  I shouldn’t have-  that was a shitty way for you to find out about Yev.”

Mickey shrugs away Ian’s concern.  Not like he hasn’t been fucking thinking about it every second of every hour since he found out or anything.  Fuck.  Yevgeny. _Yev_.  It sounds so natural coming off Ian’s tongue right now.

“Had to tell me sometime,” Mickey grunts finally.  

“Coulda done it better.”

“I ain’t arguing with that.”  They stare at one another, a stalemate of sorts, as Mickey swallows his last bite of donut.  “Let me put on some fucking pants,” Mickey concedes, wiping his hands on his wife beater as he passes by Ian again to head into his bedroom.  By the time he emerges fully dressed, Ian is loitering by the door, his baseball cap back on his head.

“You go out the front, I’ll take the back,” Mickey instructs.  If there’s only one guy, he’ll be focused on the front door.  And the pap already saw Ian come in.  WIth any luck he’ll assume Mickey’s still inside.  ‘Papers tomorrow’ll say I’m a minuteman based on how fast you got outta here.”

Ian shoots Mickey an amused grimace.  “Car’s over on North Wallace.  White SUV.”

“Got it.”

Mickey locks the front door behind Ian and then books it out the back door before the photographer wises up and ventures into the backyard. He hops a few fences between backyards to cut across to North Wallace.  He waits for several minutes on the side of a house before he sees Ian lope toward him down the sidewalk.  Ian’s got this human thing down pat.  Mickey supposes it would have looked a little suspicious if Ian used his superhuman speed right now.

“He didn’t follow me,” Ian says as Mickey emerges.  “Asked me if we fucked though, you were right.”

“Well, what’d you say back?”  The car doors slam as they get into the vehicle.  It’s clean and smells like leather.

“Told him you had the smallest dick I’ve ever seen so I backed out of the deal.”  Ian shrugs, face blank, lasting only long enough for Mickey to raise one incredulous brow.  He guffaws as he pulls out onto the street.  “You should see your face, Mick.”  At Mickey's glare, Ian insists laughingly, “I didn’t say anything to him.  Just kept walking.”

Mickey purses his lips and shakes his head.  This fucking guy.  Thinks he’s a fucking comedian.  

Only minutes later, and they’re pulling up to a storage facility.  They’re silent as Ian leads them down a labyrinth of hallways until they get to a roll up door.  Ian digs a key out of his pockets and unlocks the padlock, then pulls up the door.

Mickey gapes as Ian flips a switch and fluorescent lights flicker on, illuminating the space.  

It's bigger inside than he's imagined.  There's furniture piled high, a couch, chairs, dressers.  Boxes and plastic bins of things meticulously labeled _books_ , _records_ , _clothes_.  All the furniture is dated.  Looks and smells old and musty.

Mickey ducks into the room and points to a puke green lounge chair covered in plastic straight out of the sixties.  “Feeling nostalgic?”

Ian laughs softly, but his eyes are sad.  Mickey stares at him, confused, then lets his eyes drag around the room again.  It's clearly time stamped, and looks untouched.  Holy fuck.

“This is all my shit, isn't it? You kept it?”

“Our shit,” Ian corrects.  “And yeah.”

Mickey runs a finger through the dust on a dresser against the wall.

“Why?” he wonders.

Ian barks a laugh, sadness gone and replaced with anger.

“Because we're soulmates, you asshole!  All I could do was fucking wait for you to come back to me!  And five fucking years later I couldn't look at our stuff any more when it was obvious you didn't give a shit about our life anymore!”  Ian kicks hard at a box by his feet, and it goes crashing into another stack of boxes, toppling those too.  Then he sits heavily on one of the plastic wrapped chairs, head in his hands.  “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.  “I know it's not your fault.  I've just been so pissed for so long,  and seeing you now- it's just hard to know how to feel.”

Mickey can understand that.  He doesn't know how to feel either.  Mickey had just been going about his shitty everyday life when he landed on Ian's doorstep.  And now it's like he can breathe again, like he might be the other half to a whole. And he doesn't even know the guy.  It's fucking terrifying.

Ian sniffs and stands, turning away to collect himself for a moment as Mickey waits.  When Ian turns back around his expression is carefully neutral.

“Let's start here,” Ian says, striding forward with purpose and hefting up an enormous plastic container labeled _keepsakes_.  Mickey follows him to the sofa and they sit down next to one another, bumping knees and grinning at one another awkwardly.  “Tell me if it's too much, okay?  We can stop whenever you want.”

“I can handle looking at a few pictures,” Mickey snaps to cover his nerves.

Ian gives an ‘if you say so’ shrug and opens the container, setting the lid aside and pulling out a very old looking maroon scrapbook.  The front isn't dusty, but Ian blows on it anyway before setting it down across both of their laps and opening the first page.

A somber looking family, posing in black and white, stare up at Mickey.  At the bottom, in elegant scrawl, someone has written _Milkovich family 1907_.

Mickey looks carefully at the faces.  A man and woman sit in the center, with sons of various sizes flanking them on either side.  A little girl sits on the father's knee.

His eyes are drawn to the man, who is all but scowling.  He's broad shouldered but otherwise unremarkable, with the exception of the mean glint to his eye.  The woman is beautiful and fair skinned.  Her dark hair is pinned back severely.  She looks kinder than the man, but no less happy.  She looks like Mickey.

His throat goes dry.

“My mom and dad.”

“Yeah,” Ian affirms softly.  He points to each child in turn.  “Jamie, Joey, Colin, Iggy, and you.  And that's Mandy.”

“Mandy,” Mickey repeats, touching the smooth face of the little girl with his pointer finger.  “How old is she?”

“In this picture? Five or six.  She and I were the same age.”

“Were?”

“Yeah.  She's gone now.  They all are, far as I know.”

Milkovich.  Mickey tries it out on his tongue.

“Mickey Milkovich,” he says.  It sounds foreign to his ears.  “Thought I'd always be a one name wonder.  Like Madonna.  Or Oprah.”

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian agrees with feeling.  “Michael, if you wanna get technical.”

Mickey stares at his long forgotten, long dead family.

“Were we - happy and shit?” he asks, eyes lingering on the little girl and the scrawny boy standing by her side.  That's him.  Mickey.  He'd had a childhood.  A family.

Ian hesitates.  “Your dad- he wasn't a good man.  He didn't treat you well.  Any of you.”

“He looks like an asshole.”

Ian chuckles bitterly.  “That's putting it lightly.”  Ian taps Mickey's mother's face.  “Your mom died when you were sixteen.  Got really sick, really fast.”

Shit.  Mickey swallows the lump in his throat.

“What was she like?”

“I don't know,” Ian says apologetically.  “I never really met her, and you and Mandy never talked about her.”

Mickey clears his throat.  “Let's fucking move on then.”  Ian doesn't argue and turns the page.

“My family,” he says.  It isn't a studio photograph like the last picture.  Just a shot of kids standing on the steps of a porch.  Ian smiles fondly.

“Fiona,” he says, pointing to a tall dark haired teenage girl with her arms around two younger ones.  “Lip.”  The brother that's still living.  “Debbie.”  Even in the black and white photograph Mickey can tell that she's a redhead like Ian.  She's also covered in freckles.  “And Carl.”  The youngest, his grin a little sinister.

“Where are you?”

“I've got the camera,” Ian says.  “I worked at a general store - you and me both did, actually.  Anyway, the camera was a gift from my boss.” Mickey's a little disappointed he didn't get to see Ian as a teenager.  The year scrawled under the photograph says 1916.  “This is the year we started up.  You and me.”

There's more pictures of his family on the other page.  Lip sitting in a kitchen chair in a suit and tie, cigarette dangling from his lips and an open book in his lap.  In another photograph, beautiful Fiona smiles up at Mickey, arms around a small black boy.

“My other brother, Liam,” Ian explains.  “Fiona raised him.  It was quite the scandal.”

“Where were your parents?” Mickey wonders, dragging his eyes away from Fiona and Liam to look back up at Ian.  Ian visibly hesitates.

“My mother was committed when I was fifteen,” Ian tells him finally.  “She was mentally ill.”

“You mean like, a nuthouse?”

Ian winces.  “An asylum, yeah.  Back then- they weren't the way they are now.  Some awful shit happened in those places.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says.  “Sorry, man.  How long was she in for?”

Ian laughs sharply.  “She died in there.  Suicide.”  Ian hastens to continue, obviously not too keen on dwelling on it, “And my dad was an alcoholic bum.  Came around every once in awhile.  Just caused trouble when he did.  Fiona raised us.”

“Sorry,” Mickey says again.  He pushes his weight into Ian's shoulder a little as comfort.

“It was a long time ago,” Ian dismisses.  “They've all been gone a long time, except for Lip.”

“And none of them had kids?  Grandkids?”

“Debbie had a baby, when she was a teenager.  Gave it up for adoption.  By the time the rest of us were ready Lip was already involved in research about us. Not _us_ us, but you know.  Fated pairs.”  Fated pairs.  Mickey's surprising himself by how little the information rocks his world.

“Why the fuck would it matter if you had kids?”

“There's a genetic link.  Runs in families.  Didn't want to risk passing it on.  We got lucky with Yevgeny.”  Ian shrugs.

Mickey gets it.  He knows how much it fucking sucks to remain unchanged while the world continues around you.  He's had to watch friends age, people he knows die.  He can't imagine having memories of losing all of his family members like Ian does.  It's also kinda freaky to know that there's one person in the universe who you're meant to be with.

Ian turns the page again and Mickey's own face scowls up at them.  Years younger than he is now.  Staring miserably into the camera and wearing an army uniform.

“This is from when you enlisted the first time,” Ian tells him, pointing.  “You’d just turned eighteen.”

“I look pretty fucking stoked about it, too.”

Ian laughs softly, smiling sadly down at Mickey's young face.  “Had to steal this picture from Mandy,” he admits.  “Kept it under my mattress.”

“You jerk off to my picture or something?” Mickey teases him, and Ian flushes.  Mickey snickers.  Then he runs a finger over the yellowed photograph protected by the plastic sleeve of the scrapbook.  “It's so old timey,” Mickey says stupidly, because obviously it is, but it's hard to believe. Even for a guy who hasn't aged a day since the sixties, it's hard to imagine he'd been alive then.  “Enlisting don't really seem like something I’d do.”

Ian squints, screwing up his face in exaggerated consideration.  “I dunno, you _do_ save lives for a living.”   _Not by choice_ , Mickey thinks, but he keeps that to himself.  Ian continues, “Sacrificing yourself for your country isn't all that different, don’t you think?  But your reasons for enlisting were kinda fucked up,” Ian concedes.  “You and me had just been caught by my dad.  At that general store I told you about.”

“The one we worked at together?”

“Yeah.  We used to put out the closed sign and fuck in the back room.”  Ian’s grin is lopsided.   “Anyway my dad came in through the back door, caught us in the act.  You freaked the fuck out, worried he’d tell the neighborhood- tell your dad.  Planned to kill him until you had the brilliant idea to enlist.”  Ian rolls his eyes, then his face falls again.  “Thought I’d never see you again,”  he adds quietly.

“You knew I’d be fine though,” Mickey insists.

“I didn’t know then, I told you.”  Ian tries and fails to hide the exasperation in his voice, then he winces and rubs at his forehead.  “Sorry.  I’m not good at explaining this shit.”  Mickey resists the urge to snark back about Ian trying a little fucking harder here.  He gets that it’s probably super fucking weird to look a person in the face and tell them all about the life they had but don’t remember.  Ian tries again.  “We hadn’t really figured out yet that we were immortal - fated pairs, or whatever.  We could always hurt each other.  And your dad used to- you got hurt a lot as a kid.  For all we knew at the time you were going over there to get blown to smithereens.”

Mickey falls silent, considering this.  He’d enlisted, of his own free will, just to get away.  He’d literally risked getting killed overseas to avoid getting killed by fag bashers in the neighborhood.  Seemed like a huge fucking lose-lose.

“So how come you weren't worried about your dad running his mouth?”

Ian shrugs.  “My dad was a drunk and a narcissist.  He didn’t give a shit about anything unless it benefited him.  Plus my family sorta knew already.  They weren't too happy but they didn't really care, as long as I kept it on the down low.”

“Well ain't you just a lucky fuck.”  Mickey shakes his head in mild disgust.  Ian shrugs again, a little apologetically this time, then he directs Mickey’s attention to the book again.

On the other side of the page is Ian's own army picture.  He looks much happier than Mickey.  His eyes are fucking twinkling and he's got a half smirk on his face.  He can't be very old, barely out of his teens, still a little baby face to his cheeks.  He's already beautiful.

“Made it a couple weeks in basic before I got caught,” Ian says a little sheepishly.  “Was impersonating Lip.”  Ian shrugs.  “Found out it maybe wasn’t for me anyway.  Hey, here's a couple you'll like,”  Ian deflects quickly as he turns the page, and Mickey frowns, opening his mouth to press for more information but stopping himself.

Mickey's own teenage face grimaces up at him.  He's wearing a tight white undershirt and dark slacks rolled up to the knee, bare feet dangling off a dock.  A young woman with long loose dark hair and light eyes is seated next to him, dress hiked up and exposing her thighs, her feet bare like Mickey’s.  The only way to explain her expression is a pure snarl.  He likes her already.

“You and me and Mandy hung out a lot,” Ian explains, grinning at the siblings in the picture.  “You chaperoned us and then we'd end up ditching her to fuck.”

“Chaperoned?”  Mickey raises incredulous brows.

“Mandy was my beard,” Ian explains matter-of-factly.  “We courted for a couple years.”

“And she knew about us?”

“She knew about me.  I told you that you and your brothers came after me once?  It's because Mandy told you I'd been too forward with her to get back at me for something.  So I told her the truth to get you off my back.”

“You told her you were into dudes?”  Mickey gapes at Ian. “Kind of a risky move, don't you think?”

“Calculated risk.  She was cool with it.”  Ian shrugs, smiling down at the teenage girl in the picture.  Mickey feels a swell of jealousy rise in his chest that he can't explain.

“So she didn't know about me?” Mickey persists.

“Not for a while.”  Ian laughs.  “Which is really fucking weird because we were pretty obvious.”  Ian taps the other picture on the page.  A close up of Ian, smirking into the camera, driving cap askew on his head.  Mickey grins reflexively.  “You loved this one,” Ian tells him.  “You stole it from Mandy.  Hid it in a catalogue.”  The picture looks wrinkled and well-handled in addition to being old and yellowed.

“Obviously didn't take very good care of it,” Mickey grunts, annoyed with his past self.

“Oh I think you took real good care of it, if you know what I mean.” Ian wags his eyebrows and it's Mickey's turn to blush.  He doesn't doubt that for a second. He kinda wishes he could take that picture with him now, actually.

Ian pauses before he turns to the next page.

“It’s gonna get a little weird from here on out,” he warns.

“Just get it over with already!” Mickey is on edge because Ian's on edge.  Ian shrugs and turns the page.

It's a wedding photograph.  Of Mickey and a tall, dark-haired woman with sharp, attractive features.  Mickey is wearing an ill-fitting suit, and the woman's dress is entirely made of lace, from top to bottom.  They both look somber.

“Svetlana,” Ian provides.  “Your wife.”

Svetlana.  The mother of Yevgeny.  His wife.

He feels pretty shitty, actually, that until now he hasn’t even spared a thought for the woman who had given birth to his child.

“How long was I married to her?” he asks.  

“Until she died in 1950.  She was a good cover for us.   A good friend.”

“She know what she was getting into when she married me?” Mickey wonders, glancing up at Ian’s face.  

“You could say that,” Ian says, and Mickey doesn’t miss the bitter undertone to Ian’s voice.  Mickey raises an eyebrow in question and Ian sighs, looking pained as he rubs a hand down his face.

“Your dad-”  Ian stalls, “Your dad was pretty well known around our neighborhood for being into some bad shit.  Always had these criminal schemes.  Dragged you and your brothers into it too.  Anyway, he was always raging about guys who were too soft.  Used to kick the shit outta anyone he didn’t think was man enough.”

Mickey flips back to the first page and stares down at the man in question.

“He made me marry her?” he guesses.  Ian closes his eyes briefly, sighing.

“He caught us together.  Came after me first, then beat you unconscious when you stepped in.  Then he- then he sent for a prostitute and made me watch.”

Mickey gapes, open mouthed, bile churning in his gut.  He would've never in a million years have guessed that.

His own father.

“And this woman- Svetlana-”

“She was the prostitute,” Ian confirms, face grim.  “She got pregnant and you married her.”

“Fuck.” Mickey swipes a hand over his face.  “What about you?”

“I wasn't your biggest priority just then.”  Ian can't hide the hint of bitterness from his tone.  “We spent some time apart for a while.  But it was a good thing.  I was starting to- anyway, when I came back your dad was locked up.  You ‘rented’- ” Ian makes air quotes “-a room in your house to me.”

Mickey snorts.

“So that's how we sold it, huh?  Terminal bachelor just needs a place to live?  And Svet- Svetlana didn't care?”

“You called her Svet then too,” Ian tells him warmly.  “And no.  Her ‘cousin’ lived with us too.”  Ian does the air quote thing again. “Nika.”

“Nika,” Mickey repeats.  “A woman?  Jesus, we were just one big homo family, weren't we?”

“Pretty much.  As much as you and Svet fought, you guys loved each other.  You were so alike.”

“Svetlana and Yevgeny,” Mickey says slowly, only just beginning to piece it together.  “Nika.  They're Russian.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey leans back.  “Lived over there for a long time.”

“In Russia?”  Ian's eyes go wide.  Mickey nods.

“Did the circus act thing.  Strongest man alive.”

Ian scoffs.  “Figures.”

“Well, what have you done with your life, asshole?”  Mickey demands, and Ian shrugs.

“What I've always done.  I'm a paramedic.  If you'd ever stick around long enough after you save the day maybe you'd run into me sometime,” Ian jibes.

“Oh yeah, I remember now.”  At Ian's hopeful expression, Mickey hastens to add, “John told me, is all.”  He shifts in his seat. “So why didn't you become a doctor or some shit?  All this time on your hands.”

Ian snorts.  “Why didn't _you_?”  Mickey snorts right back and they smirk at one another.  Clearly academics isn't either of their things.  “Anyway,” Ian says, prompting them back down to the scrapbook in their laps.  “Up next is Yevgeny.”

Mickey exhales.  “Fuck. Okay.”

Ian turns a page, and Mickey sees a tattered, yellowed news clipping announcing the baptism of Yevgeny Milkovich, son of Mickey and Svetlana Milkovich at 1955 Zemansky Road, Chicago.

“That's just down the block from my place!”  Mickey points at the fine print on the newspaper article.  

“Told you you’re still in the same neighborhood.”  Ian knocks elbows with him.  “Think maybe everything from the past's trapped somewhere in that brain of yours.”

Mickey shrugs and turns his attention to the yellowed, black and white photograph of a baby with a bonnet on his head, dressed head to toe in white.  “That him?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs.  “Cute, huh?  This was his baptism picture.”

Mickey shrugs.  A baby is a baby.  He’s a little disappointed that he doesn’t see an immediate resemblance to himself.  This baby is a towhead, for one.

“Wait for it,” Ian urges, like he understands Mickey's reticence.  He turns the page and suddenly the baby is a little toddler with dark hair and piercing light blue eyes.  This picture is in color, which surprises Mickey.  Yevgeny stands next to a toy rocking horse clutching a teddy bear, a serious expression on his little face.  It looks like a studio portrait.

There are others - page after page of Yevgeny growing up, mostly candid ones.  All of them, the adults in Yevgeny’s life, are present in various photographs.  Svetlana and Nika age discreetly throughout the snapshots, but Mickey and Ian look remarkably the same as Yevgeny grows up alongside them.   In one photograph a pre-teen Yevgeny sits sandwiched between Ian and Mickey on a living room sofa.  The two of them look barely older than teenagers.  Ian is grinning widely at the person behind the camera and Mickey's smiling indulgently at Ian, a cigarette dangling between his lips.  Mickey leans forward and inspects the photograph closer, squinting as his eye catches the hair above his own upper lip.

“Yeah, that was your Clark Gable phase,” Ian explains with a grin.  “Took you forever to grow, but it was sexy as fuck.”  Mickey’s eyebrows go up at Ian’s easy honesty, and Ian shrugs in response, the corners of his mouth turning up.  The hairs on Mickey’s arms stand up and he shifts a little further away on the couch to lessen the electric feeling between them.

“He was a good student when he tried,” Ian tells him, dragging Mickey’s thoughts back to Yevgeny.  “Liked tinkering with cars and chasing after girls more though.  He graduated in ‘39, and enlisted in ‘41.”  Ian gestures to Yevgeny’s military picture pasted directly next to Mickey’s.  The former looks significantly more excited than the latter.  “Can’t deny you don’t look like one another now, huh?  You guys passed as brothers.”

It’s true.  They look remarkably alike - same dark hair, full lips and light eyes.  Yevgeny’s chin is more pointed, his eyes larger.  He’s a handsomer version of his father, and Mickey feels a swell of pride rise in his chest.  He did good.  That’s his boy.  

“So what were you doing while me and the kid were busy getting blown up?” he asks once he’s had his fill of staring at the adult son he can’t remember.  But he winces at his own insensitive wording because that’s probably exactly what did happen to Yevgeny.  As much as it hurts to not remember his son, Mickey honestly feels grateful that he doesn’t have memories of his time in combat.  He’s had buddies who were totally fucked up because of the shit they’d seen and experienced.  Especially because he would have walked away from everything, unhurt, while others died around him.

Ian shrugs, mouth in a firm line, and Mickey can see that he’s touched a nerve, so he hastens to say,  “Never mind, man.  None of my business.”

“It’s not-” Ian starts, then stops.  “It’s just complicated is all.”

“Okay.”  Mickey doesn’t push.  “So uh- how did he die?”

Ian shifts in his spot.  “You really want to know?”

Mickey considers.  Does he want to know?  Does he need to know?

“Maybe some other time,” he concedes, because the weight of all that he’s already learned is sitting heavily on his chest.  

“I have his flag at my house,” Ian says.  “The one they gave us at the funeral.  It's over the mantle.  You can have it, if you want.”

“No.”  Mickey shakes his head.  He’s not taking that from Ian.  “He was your son too, and you're the one who remembers him.  You should keep it.”

Ian exhales in relief, like he'd been hoping Mickey would say that.

“So, how are you feeling?” he asks Mickey hesitantly.  “With all of this?”

How is he feeling?  He feels both wonderful and awful in the same moment, the emotions tied tight in a knot and caught in his throat.  

“Honestly?  Like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck.”  Mickey sighs heavily

Ian nods and wipes his palms on his pants.  “So uh, there’s more in here, besides pictures,” he says, gesturing to the tub at their feet.  “The papers are pretty fragile, so we gotta be careful.   But there’s some of Yevgeny’s drawings and a couple letters and-”  he stops, searching Mickey’s face for a moment.  “You know what?  Are you hungry?  I'll go get us some burritos from that food truck up the block while you look,” Ian offers.  He's obviously giving Mickey time to look through the box without an audience, and Mickey's kinda grateful for that.

“Okay, cool,” Mickey agrees, swallowing.    

Ian nudges the plastic container further toward Mickey, then gets up off the couch, the springs of the old sofa squeaking loudly.  “See you in a few.”  Mickey nods, watches Ian pull up the door enough to duck under it.  Then he grabs for the container as soon as he’s sure he’s alone.

Carefully, he sifts through crumbling, yellowed papers of little drawings of Yevgeny’s, a decent enough report card ( _“Yevgeny’s use of foul language is not acceptable”,_ the note from the teacher reads).  And letters with international postage, packaged carefully in a letterbox.  Mickey opens the first few and puts them away just as quickly.  The writing is in Russian, and although he can manage a conversation, he’d never bothered to learn to read the language.  But the next one is addressed to Svetlana with his own name as the return address.  He slides the letter out of the envelope and notes how much his writing has changed over the years, from the sloping cursive of the time to the chicken scratch it is today.  The letter is dated May 29, 1942.

_Dear Svet,_

_We’re preparing to ship overseas soon.  They say the weather is fine there and the scenery better, if there were time to enjoy it.  Yevgeny has made no secret of his Russian heritage, as you probably know now.  There is talk of taking him away from here and putting him to better use in the Motherland.  I kick myself for not learning the language - don't you dare say I told you so - or I might be able to follow him. I'll do what I have to do to stay near him.  I told you I'd take care of him, Svet, and I will.  More soon when we get settled over there._

He bites the inside of his cheek.  He'd promised his son's mother that he would protect Yevgeny, and then he hadn't.  Svetlana probably hated him.

He digs further through the box and finds a few more letters addressed to Svetlana, and just about a dozen addressed to Ian.  He sets those carefully on the seat next to him and opens a few more of Svetlana’s, scanning the contents of each letter quickly.  He’d kept her abreast of Yevgeny’s actions and little else.  Yevgeny hadn’t been used as an interpreter and the two of them had managed to stick together, from what Mickey could glean from the contents.  But the letters abruptly stopped. The last letter was postmarked in May of ‘44.

He’s piecing it together a little, he thinks.  They’d been stationed in Africa, then England, and finally in France.  The letters had stopped just before D-Day.

Mickey closes his eyes, wills away the sounds of gunfire and shouting that he must be imagining.  He’d rather not have those memories return, thank you very much.

His fingers tremble a little as he reaches for Ian’s letters.  He’s nervous as fuck to see what’s inside.  He’s meeting a different version of himself today.  A better version.  The doting father, the good friend, the loving partner.

_The loving partner._

He opens the first letter.

 

_August 16, 1942_

_Ian,_

_I hate the ship.  We’ve only just settled here in England and already set to ship off again for Africa.  Every mile farther from you makes my chest ache.  But knowing you’re safe at home makes the ache worth it.  Stay put.  Don’t you even think about it.  Y_ _evgeny is like he was when he would wait around to open Christmas presents after supper.   I wish I had his enthusiasm.  Remember the year we bought him that electric train set?_ _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, alright?  I hope you are well.  I know that you are._

_-M_

 

It’s short and to the point, and even though Mickey doesn’t remember writing it, he can feel himself in the words.  Can feel the hesitancy, the desire to say more.

The rest of the letters are just as short, although he can feel his own loneliness breathes out of the yellowed pages.  There are large gaps between letters, and Mickey wonders if he’d been that terrible of a pen pal or if a few have been lost over the years.

 

_November 23,1942_

_Ian,_

_I’m finding that the time passes quickly.  They keep us busy but let us out on the prowl every once in awhile.  I had to drag Yevgeny home from the brothel last week - don’t tell his mother.  We’ve seen plenty of action.  Yevgeny still has all of his fingers and toes and a thirst for justice that I’ve never felt.  I made him sit and write Svet the other day - it is too hard to play the father role.  He sees me as a fellow soldier and an annoying friend, as he should I suppose._ _I think about you all the time._

_-M_

 

_February 26, 1943_

_Ian,_

_Everything is hot here, all the time.  The boys have been passing around a bug, sick as dogs.  Everyone praises my iron constitution.  Yevgeny has not been so lucky.  We waxed poetic about Svet’s stew the other day.  Nice to have him with me, although I wish it weren’t here._ _I look up at the stars every night like you told me to.  I hope you do the same.  I wonder what you are doing every day._ _I love you,_

_-M_

 

_July  28, 1943_

_Ian,_

_We’ve shipped out again and seen heavy casualties here in Sicily.  The mountain travel is weary on everyone.  Yevgeny has lost his spirit and is a miserable as the rest of us. I wish I could give him some of my strength.  He lost a good buddy just the other day.  Seeing young men die while I am untouchable is not easy.  Every night I dream about Yevgeny ending up like them.  I can’t help but feeling that it is inevitable.  I know I shouldn’t put those thoughts in your head.  I distract myself by thinking of you in our bed.  I miss your skin and your hands and your mouth._

_Love, M._

 

Mickey reddens a little at the last one as he can’t help but think of the skin and hands and mouth of the Ian he knows today.  The near stranger.  Once they’d been lovers.  Shared a bed, fucked, all that shit.

The rest are similar.  A short few lines of general updates and a message of love at the end. with the exception of the last one.  The final one is dated July 1944, and tear-stained writing fills the crumpled paper front to back.

Mickey exhales a shaky breath.  He knows what this is.

 

 _You’ve heard the news by now.  I know you've been worried and I'm sorry.  T_ _hought I’d done my best but it wasn’t fucking good enough.  He didn’t want me trailing him anymore.  We fought about it a few weeks before he died.  I should have done something.  I should have broken his fucking leg so he’d have to come home, even if he was angry with me for the rest of his life.  And now I close my eyes and all I see is his blood on my hands and his screams in my ears.  He went down right on the beach.  I think it was near instant, if that's any comfort to you or to Svet.  I can't think of how I've hurt her.  I told her I'd keep him alive and I couldn't.  I can't come home to her or to you.  How will you look at me the same again?  I've killed so many men.  Some with my bare hands.  I killed my son._

 

He stops as the tears blur his vision, shudders as his body is wracked with silent sobs.  He can’t hold it back, the grief for his unknown son is overwhelming.  Grief for Ian and Svetlana, and for himself.

He had a son.  He had a son and a lover and a life.  All gone.

“Hey,” Ian says suddenly behind him.  “Couldn't remember if you liked pico or not-” he stops as soon as he sees Mickey hastily rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands.  “Mick?”

“What?  So they're tough to fucking read, so what?” Mickey snaps defensively, although he's unable to keep his lip from quivering at the sight of his former lover.  His former lover who’d lost a child, just like him.

“You read the letters,” Ian guesses, voice breaking.  Mickey nods, sniffing.  He screws up his face in an effort to keep the tears at bay.

Ian sets the greasy paper bag he’s been holding onto an end table with a soft thunk.

“Mickey,” he says. Mickey stands, swallowing around his heart as Ian approaches with purpose.  Ian pulls Mickey into his chest and his arms are heavy against Mickey’s shoulders, hands warm where they fall on Mickey’s back.  Mickey’s head falls on instinct into the curve of Ian’s neck, and he breathes in, the scent instantly fuzzily familiar and intensely comforting.  For a long moment they stand there, Mickey soaking tears into Ian’s shoulder and Ian’s own tears wetting the side of Mickey’s hair.  Finally, Ian pulls his head away enough to put his hands on either side of Mickey's face.  He rubs his thumbs gently under Mickey’s eyes, wiping away the tears that cling to Mickey's lower lashes even as his own still fall.

“I missed you so fucking much, Mick.”

Ian leans forward, and Mickey meets him halfway, stretching up to slot his lips against Ian's.  Ian's lips are soft and full and sure, and Mickey opens his mouth to brush his tongue against them.  Ian gasps against him and pulls him closer, burying one hand in Mickey's hair and wrapping the other around his waist.  Mickey responds in kind, caressing the side of Ian’s neck and trailing a thumb along his chin.   Their tongues tangle together, and it’s both too much and not enough as sparks shoot through Mickey’s body.  It’s the most unbelievable kiss of his life.  They pull apart slowly, resting their foreheads against one another as they catch their breaths, reluctant to let one another go entirely but knowing they can’t take things further.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says after they finally part.  He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end funny at the top.  “I shouldn’t have done that.  It’s just - you were hurting and-”

Mickey scoffs lightly.  “Jesus, don’t fucking apologize.  I kissed you back, if you remember.”

Ian chuckles shortly in response, then sniffs and wipes at his eyes.  “Yeah you did.”  

“Damn,” Mickey breathes in amazement, toes still tingling in his shoes.  If that’s how it feels to make out with the guy, he can’t imagine what fucking him would be like.

Ian tosses him a cheeky, embarrassed smile.  “That was nothing.  We collapsed a barn the day you came back from your first tour.”

The barn.  Mickey's dream.   _Damn_.

“And what about the second tour?” Mickey asks, feeling the grief begin to creep up again as the moment between them fades.  

Ian seems to almost deflate.  “The second one was harder.  You were afraid to come home, and when you did-”  He cuts himself off, shaking his head.  “Svet wasn’t angry with you, you know.  She never blamed you.  And neither did I.”  Mickey pulls his lips into his teeth and turns away, shoving the rising emotions back down.  “You need to know that, Mick.”

Mickey nods.  “Yeah.  Okay.  So uh, how did she die?”

“Cervical cancer, we think,” Ian tells him, grimacing apologetically.  “It went quick.  We were with her.”

“Yevgeny wasn’t,” Mickey says bitterly before he can stop himself.  Ian frowns in concern and moves toward Mickey again, but stops himself before they can make contact.

“You gotta try to let it go, Mickey.  You did before.”  Mickey just shakes his head.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to.

“Where are they buried?” he asks finally, clearing his throat.  He’s gotta visit them.  Pay his respects.

Ian sighs, but nods in understanding.  “Mount Olivet.  D’you want me to go with you?”

“No.” Mickey shakes his head.  He’s certain of it.  “Think I gotta do this on my own.”

“Okay.”  Ian looks a little disappointed, but nods again.  “Okay.  But tell them hey for me, would you?  I haven’t been in a while.”

Mickey swallows.  “Sure.”

“Svet liked camomile flowers.  If you wanted to bring something or whatever,” offers Ian.

“Yeah.  Thanks.  For everything.”  Mickey reaches out and briefly touches Ian on the elbow on instinct.  He points to the burrito bag.  “Mind if I take one to go?”

“You’re leaving right now?”  Ian’s face falls.

“Yeah.”  Mickey runs a hand down his face.  “Sorry.  I gotta-”

“I get it.”  Ian can’t hide his disappointment as he moves to retrieve Mickey’s burrito for him.  He passes it over and says, “Listen.  I have digital copies of all of this I can give you.  Or you can take the originals too.  Just uh, let me know, okay?  And I wanna take you to see Lip, too.”

Mickey furrows his brow.  “Your brother?  Why?”

“You wanna know more about why you are the way you are, don’t you?  Lip can explain all that shit better than me.”

“Alright, whatever,” Mickey concedes, because he does want to know.  He's got a lot of fucking questions about all of it.  Like how all this even happened.  How he became this way.  Why fated pairs, or whatever Ian calls them, even exist.  

“Friday too soon?” Ian wonders, eyebrows raised in question.  Mickey grimaces, not too happy about the timeline but knowing he’s got to get it all over with.

“Guess not.”  Looks like he’ll be going on a little road trip.  The city’ll have to manage without him for a day.  He turns to go, eyeing the scrapbook still laid out on the old couch, considering.

Nah.

“Hey,” Ian calls as Mickey heads for the retractable door.  “Before you go.”  He holds up a finger, signaling for Mickey to wait, then digs until he finds a box he’s looking for.  He wrenches it open and pulls out a pair of denim jeans.  “Please put these on for me.  Please.”  He tosses them to Mickey and practically doubles over laughing as Mickey holds up the bell bottoms.

“No.  No fucking way.”  Mickey balls them up and sends them soaring toward Ian again.  “I refuse to believe I ever fucking wore those.”

“You did!”  Ian is wiping tears of mirth out of his eyes.  “You so did.”

“Fuck off.”  Mickey gives him the finger for good measure as he yanks up the door.

“10 AM Friday, same place on North Wallace,” Ian calls after his retreating back.  “And you’re gonna wear those pants for me again one day!”

Mickey walks away, and that tight feeling in his chest returns before he'd even had a chance to realize it was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

_He's lying on his back on a blanket of snow.  He can feel the cold seeping through his heavy winter jacket.  He wiggles his toes.  They're like icicles in his boots.  But it doesn't hurt.  It’s just uncomfortable._

_“Papa!” someone calls, and Mickey sits up on his elbows.  A little boy waves to him from the top of the snowy hill.  The boy is bundled up so thoroughly that Mickey can only see the red tip of his nose.  “Catch me!”  And then Yevgeny is flying down the hill on his toboggan and Mickey hardly has time to scramble up off his back before Yevgeny hits a bump and goes flying._

_Ian isn't here.  The realization sends a dull pang through Mickey as he pumps his legs with enough speed to get there fast enough to cushion Yev's fall with his body.  He wouldn't be able to do that if he were.  His chest feels empty.  Lonely._

_Yevgeny is laughing.  He stumbles a little as he rights himself, then he turns to Mickey._

_“I don't need you to look after me!” Yevgeny roars, and suddenly he's a young man and they're far away from the snow hill.  Yevgeny shoves a finger in Mickey's face.  “Just let me make my own damn mistakes, alright?  You're not my father here!”  And he storms away and Mickey is alone.  But not alone.  Teenage Ian stands next to him, naked from head to toe, cock standing at attention._

_“Hey, Mick.”_

_And suddenly Mickey's bent over a sofa in an eerily familiar living room.  There’s an ache in his ass unrelated to the sex, but it hurts so good as Ian pushes inside of him.  He turns his head a little and catches Ian’s eye.  Teenage Ian smirks at him as he bucks his hips and Mickey groans.  He can feel a sharp sting as he bites his lip hard.  He can feel the throbbing pain as blood suddenly drips into his eyes.  He can hear the ringing in his ears as Ian’s pleasant weight disappears and Svetlana takes his place. Mickey is on the couch now and his head pounds and Svetlana is straddling him and holding a naked, screaming baby.  In the corner of the room sits a man - his father.  He has a gun in his hand, and a cigarette in his mouth, and he’s laughing._

_"Don’t do this,” a voice begs, and Mickey whips his head around.  Ian stands in the center of the room, face ashen and devastated._

_“You will take care of baby,” Svetlana insists sternly, shoving the child into his arms._

_“No son of mine!” His father growls from the corner.  “No son of mine will be a goddamn queer!”_

He sits upright, breathing heavily, as he wrenches himself out of the dream.  His shirt sticks to his chest where sweat has pooled.

Ian.  He needs to talk to Ian.

Wait.  No.  He doesn't have his number.  And it's three in the morning and Ian's probably sleeping peacefully next to his husband right now.

Mickey reaches for the half full beer bottle next to the bed and takes a swig, willing his nerves to calm down.  He wonders how much of his dream was real and how much he'd filled in from the things he'd been told and read at the storage facility.  It had felt real.  Every second of it.

He's gonna need to switch to stronger stuff to deal with this shit.  He hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into the dark living room, where he'd left that handle of vodka.  He’d left Ian’s storage room and tried to keep himself busy the rest of the day, hitting Event after Event like a machine.  But he’d still had to return to his empty house at the end of the night.  The vodka he’d downed before bed hadn’t stopped the dreams from coming, though.  

To think just a few days ago he was going about his life, not a single thought of Ian or Yevgeny or Svetlana in his head.  A small, guilty part of him wishes he could go back to that.

The police scanner, never silent in the Southside of Chicago, chatters on in the corner of the room.  He could go to a few calls right now, keep his mind busy.  Mickey worries his lip, debating, before heading back to his bedroom, vodka in hand. He reaches for his phone and types his own first and last name into the search engine.  He scowls when current images and articles (and a few very creepy stalker-level blogs) about himself fill the search results.

_Michael Milkovich,_ he tries instead.  His birth name, according to Ian.  Most of the hits are worthless, but there's one link to a public family tree from one of those ancestry websites.

And there he is.  His name on a little square, within the Milkovich branch of a much broader family tree.   _Michael Milkovich, b. August 10, 1899; d. unknown_

And Svetlana, directly next to him, connected through marriage.  Maiden name unknown, birthdate unknown.  Died January 16, 1950.  

There’s _Yevgeny Milkovich,_ below his parents.   _b: March 12th, 1921; d: June 6,1944._

Their own small family unit stops with Yevgeny, but there are other names, dozens and dozens, branching off of Mickey's siblings.   He uses his thumb and forefinger to stretch and move the family tree to better read the tiny print.

His mother's name was Mary.  Most of his siblings had children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, it seems.  He carefully looks over Mandy's family tree.  Her married name was Beck.  She'd had two boys and two girls, and she'd been a grandmother to ten.  She'd died in the early seventies, while Mickey was over in Eastern Europe.  From the looks of, it’s one of her grandchildren who's put this family tree together.  Had she worried about him?  Wondered why he didn't come see her?  Was she angry with him for never coming back?  He'll have to ask Ian about that, if he ever feels prepared enough to hear the answers.

By the time he’s seen enough, the sun is up.  Mickey locks his phone and seeks out something for breakfast from his meager selection in the kitchen.  Then he goes to his closet and hems and haws like a chick as he decides what to wear.  Today’s the day.  Finally he settles on his lone gray  button down collared shirt.  Doesn’t matter what he wears - not like they’ll be able to see him - but it feels important.  Respectful.  

An hour later, and Mickey re-tucks his shirt into his jeans awkwardly with one hand while he clutches flowers with the other as he wanders down the paved road of the enormous cemetery.  He’d neglected to ask for help from the office.  Didn’t need news that he’s visiting relatives in the papers.  Gotta keep Yevgeny and Svetlana private.  

There aren’t many people wandering around the graveyard  in the middle of the day on a Thursday afternoon, but those few workers he does see give him a wide berth.  He tells himself it's probably cemetery protocol and has nothing to do with who he is, but he can’t help but tug at his collar self-consciously as he searches gravemarkers.   He shuffles the flowers from hand to hand so he can swipe his palms on the thighs of his jeans.  He can’t quit fidgeting.  

It takes him over an hour to find them, but suddenly there they are.  He sees the family stone first. _MILKOVICH_ is etched below an engraved Russian Orthodox cross onto the simplistic granite headstone.  There are annuals planted around it.  It looks cared for.  Mickey’s eyes sting as he thinks of Ian coming by in his spare time to keep up the graves.  To visit their family.

Svetlana’s ledger stone is to the left, Yevgeny directly next to her on the right.  Mickey hesitates, hovering between the two graves.  Finally he bends down and places the flowers over Svetlana’s grave, where her body lies below the grass.

“Hey,” he says finally.  “I, uh.  Fuck.  I don’t know what to say to you.”  He rubs a hand over his mouth, then snorts derisively.  “Not like you can hear me anyway, huh?”  Jesus, this is stupid.  “Sorry I don’t remember you,” he says finally.  “Can’t believe I had a wife.  I hope- I hope I treated you okay.  Ian says we were friends.”  He shifts his weight and glances around him, indecisive, then just gives in and sinks to his knees on the ground.  The grass is soft under him.  He wants to rip handfuls out by the roots and watch the blades scatter in the wind.

“Listen Svet, I know I can’t remember you but, uh, I know you were a good mom to our kid.  I can feel it.  And I’m-” he pauses, clearing his throat and swallowing down his tears “- sorry I couldn’t save him.”  He hopes Ian wasn't lying when he said Svetlana hadn't blamed him.  If the roles were reversed he isn't sure he'd forgive so easily.

Mickey takes a deep breath, steeling himself before he finally turns toward Yevgeny'’s grave.  “I wish I could remember being your dad.  Can't imagine I was a very good one, so maybe it's a good thing, huh?” He laughs shortly, then shakes his head.  “Fuck.”  He rubs a hand down his face and closes his eyes briefly.  “Feels weird to miss something I don't remember.”  He sniffs, glancing around again.  No one’s looking at him.  “I’m gonna do everything I can to remember you again.  Whatever it takes, alright?  You deserve that.”

He doesn’t have anything else to say to them.  He wishes he did.   Strange to think that their bodies are here with him now, just under the dirt.  Bodies of people he'd once known and loved.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, listening to the quiet.  The pain, the confusing unknown grief he’s felt for the last near 48 hours, ebbs and flows, coming at him in waves.  He doesn’t try to stop it.  He lets it wash over him.  There’s nothing else to do.

By the time he finally stands, the sky is darkening.  He doesn’t want to leave them here.  He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

“I’ll come back,” he says to them, speaking for the first time in hours.  “I’ll see you soon.”

The next morning after a fitful night’s sleep, it’s finally time to meet Ian.   Mickey is both dreading and looking forward to seeing him again.  Ian’s the only one who can tell him what he needs to know.  He wants to know everything and nothing.

Ian's waiting for him in his shiny white SUV when Mickey approaches at 10:05.  He leans his head toward the open passenger window and holds up a heavy plastic bag.  “Hey!  I brought car snacks!”

Mickey can't help but smile bemusedly as he opens the door and climbs in.  What a fucking nerd.

“Hope you got licorice.”  He snatches the bag from Ian's hand and peeks in.

“Obviously.  You think I'd forget your favorite candy?” Ian teases as he merges back onto the street.

“Amnesia jokes.  Hilarious.”

Ian looks chagrined until Mickey smirks at him, then he huffs and rolls his eyes.  “Buckle your seatbelt,” he orders with a jerk of his head.

“Why?”

“Wouldn't want you getting hurt.”  Mickey scoffs at the notion out of habit, but Ian gives him a stern look.  Mickey raises a brow, but does as he’s told.  “Don't you feel different?  Being near me?  You can't tell that you're weaker?” Ian wonders.

“No,” Mickey says honestly, shaking his head.  “I feel even more alive when I'm with you.”

"That-” Ian opens and closes his mouth, then clears his throat.  “Jesus.”  He shakes his head to clear his suddenly misty eyes, and Mickey stares at him.

“What?  What the fuck did I say?”

“You just got a way with words sometimes is all.”  Mickey raises miffed eyebrows, and Ian laughs fondly at his expression.  “What?”

“No one’s ever said that about me before.  I ain't exactly known for my turns of phrase.”

“Well, no one knows you like I do.”

It’s awkwardly quiet for a long moment.  Mickey shifts uncomfortably in his seat and keeps his eyes firmly on the road.  He simultaneously wishes Ian wouldn't say that shit and wants Ian to say more of it.

“So, uh, I went.  To the gravesite,” he shares finally.  

“Oh yeah?” Ian comments neutrally, seemingly unsurprised.  “So how'd it go?”

“I don't know.  It was nice there, I guess.  Peaceful.”

Ian nods.  “Most of my family's there too.  I try to visit a few times a years.”

“Shit man, you should've told me.  I woulda paid my respects.”

Ian waves him off.  “They're not important right now.  Don't worry about it.”  He glances at Mickey out of the corner of his eye.  “There's, uh, two more plots there, you know.  For you and me.”

“For you and me,”  Mickey repeats slowly as heat rises up the back of his neck.  “What about John?”

“Well, I was never going to die with _John_ ,” Ian says matter of factly.  “Figured I’d either wait around for you to get your act together or wait til we got tired of it all so we could put one another out of our misery.”

Mickey bites his lip and looks down.  If only Ian knew how he’d tried.

As if he somehow understands the connection, Ian suddenly asks, “So what made you do the whole superhero bit?  I mean, I’m not surprised,” Ian teases, “on accounta you being such an extroverted attention whore and all.”  

“Fuck you,” Mickey says without heat.  “Don't see you using your powers for good.”

“They're not powers.”  Ian rolls his eyes.   “And I do sometimes.  I just prefer to stay out of the spotlight.”

“I didn't mean for that to happen,” Mickey admits defensively.  “Going public or whatever.  I didn’t ask for any of this shit.  But there were just so many people.  Not enough time to get outta there before the press showed up.”  It had been the most terrifying night of his life so far.  The delirium and panic.  The guilt.  He’d spent weeks deciding.  Drank copious amounts of liquid courage.

Ian furrows his brow.  “What are you- oh!  That train accident?”  Of course Ian would remember.  It would have been the first time he’d seen or heard from Mickey since the sixties.  “I saw the news coverage.  First time I saw your face since Duluth.  You looked-” Ian frowns and doesn't continue.  Mickey knows how he probably looked.  Mickey gnaws on his lip.  He twists his fingers in his lap.  “So what happened exactly?” Ian asks curiously.  “Did you see what the train hit?  The locomotive was all crumpled in.”  

“Uh,” Mickey says, swallowing.  “Think so.”  The impact had caused car after car to slam together and topple off the tracks.  The sound was enormous, the screeching and slamming of metal on metal reverberating around the open air.  He can still hear it sometimes, when he closes his eyes.  That, and the screaming.  

“Must’ve been something pretty big to topple all those cars,” Ian speculates, whistling. He glances over at Mickey, then grimaces at Mickey’s expression.  “Sorry.  Probably not easy to talk about.  You were really at the right place at the right time though, huh?  Bet the survivors are thankful.”

Mickey can’t help but bark a short, derisive laugh at that.  Like fuck they are.  If it hadn’t been for him they wouldn’t have been in the mess in the first place.

“What were you even doing there?” Ian continues, oblivious.  “Wasn't it like three in the morning?”

Mickey hums in acknowledgment.  Ian furrows his brow and seeks out Mickey's eyes.  Slowly, Mickey raises his guilty gaze back to Ian's face.

“Holy shit,”  Ian says suddenly.  He stares at Mickey, eyes wide.   “It was you, wasn't it?  The train hit you!”  Mickey swallows.  “No wonder you stayed!  You were responsible!”

“Yeah,” Mickey says weakly.  Ian squints.  He's starting to put the pieces together.

“But how did you even get hit?  You would’ve been able to get out of the way fast enough.”  Ian pauses.  “Were you drunk?” he asks slowly. “Confused about where you were?”

“No,” Mickey says.  Might as well come clean.  “I mean yeah, I was drunk.  But I-” he stops, takes a shaky breath.  Ian is holding his.  “I knew what I was doing.”

Ian just stares dumbly at him, mouth hanging open.  Long enough to have to quickly straighten the wheel when his car veers into the next lane.  He shakes his head slowly, disbelievingly.

“I gotta.  I gotta pull over.”  As if in slow motion, Ian puts on his blinker and pulls onto the shoulder, easing the car to a stop and putting it in park.  Ian lets go of the wheel as soon as he’s parked and rubs his face roughly.  “Why?” Ian laments through his hands.  “Why would you-”

“What does it matter, anyway?” Mickey spits defensively.  “Ain't like it worked.”  He’d been pretty sure it wouldn’t work, honestly, but he’d been feeling desperate.  

“It matters,” Ian practically yells through clenched teeth.  “It matters because obviously you were depressed enough or whatever to think your life wasn’t worth living!”

Mickey scoffs, his age-old defense mechanism.  “I ain’t fucking depressed.”

“Then what was it?” Ian cries.  “What could possibly have been so bad?”

“Everything!” Mickey roars back, rounding on Ian.  “Everything was bad!  You have no fucking idea how-” he stops, clenches his fists and closes his eyes as Ian sits like a statue next to him.  Finally, when he's got better control of himself, he continues.  “I woke up without any family, with no fucking idea who I was, with these weird as fuck abilities I couldn't explain.  The few friends I did make moved the fuck on, the guys I was with didn't feel right.  I had this fucking hole in my chest that wouldn't go away.  After twenty five years I was just - ready to be done feeling lonely.  And then after - I had to make up for what I did.  So I just kept saving people.  Trying to make up for the lives I took that night.”  Seven of them.  Seven people who’d died for no reason.  

The silence that fills the car is heavy.  Ian shakes his head, lower lip trembling.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.  “Mickey, I’m so sorry.  I feel like - this was all my fault.”

“How the fuck is it your fault?” Mickey asks, startled.  “You didn't know.”

Ian just continues to shake his head miserably.  “Maybe if I'd come to the hospital sooner after the shooting.  Or if I hadn't given up looking for you.”

“Hey,” Mickey implores a little gruffly.  He hesitates, then leans forward and grips Ian by the back of the neck.  He can’t resist the urge to comfort him.  “It ain't your fault, alright?”  Green eyes meet blue.  Ian swallows.  Nods.  “Alright,” Mickey says definitively, moving away again.  “Can we move the fuck on, please?”

“If you tell me it was the first time.  The only time.”

Mickey looks away.  He won't tell Ian about the time before that, when he'd climbed to the roof of the Sears tower but didn't have the guts to jump.

“Yeah,” he lies.  “What woulda been the point, anyway?”

Ian doesn't exactly like that answer, judging by the purse of his lips.  But he eases the car back onto the freeway without further comment.

“You don't owe anyone anything, you know,” Ian says finally after nearly a minute of silence.  “You've more than made up for what you did.  You've made the city a better place.”

Mickey snorts.  “Couple days ago I was some bumbling drunken asshole vigilante to you.”

“Yeah well, those things aren't mutually exclusive.”  Ian shoots Mickey a sly grin, and Mickey feels his own lips pull up at the corners despite himself.

Ian leans forward and turns on the radio, finding an oldies station and turning up the volume.  Big band swing music fills the car, and Ian and Mickey grin at one another.  It feels like some sort of shared secret.

“Svet and me used to love to dance,” Ian tells him.  “Remember?  We’d go out dancing sometimes together, but mostly we danced at home.  We’d move all the furniture to clear this big space in the living room and Nika would play the trumpet sometimes, or we’d put on a record, and Svetlana and I would do these choreographed numbers for you guys.”

Mickey laughs.  He can almost picture it, in a hazy way.  Ian and Svetlana and sometimes Yevgeny dancing and laughing in the living room, Yevgeny tripping over the rug in his excitement.  Svetlana wears a silk robe.  Ian looks as handsome as ever in a white undershirt and slacks.   Mickey wonders if it’s a real memory.

“You never danced with us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Mickey agrees with a chuckle.  He may not remember his past life, but he knows he wouldn't do _that_.

“But sometimes,” Ian’s voice softens, “sometimes you’d wait til Yev and Svet and Nika went to bed and you’d put on a slow song and you’d dance with just me, right there in the living room.  And it was special.  Because no one ever got to see you that way, like I did.  Soft, you know?”

He can feel it.  The weight of Ian's hands on his waist.  The touch of Ian's skin under his lips.  The sway of their bodies as a love song plays from a tinny speaker in the background.  And then what always happened afterwards.  The sweat and the pleasure and the love.  The feeling of completeness, togetherness.

They don't say any more.   Mickey closes his eyes and lets the swing music flow into him.  He feels pliant and comfortable with Ian by his side, even with their earlier conversation.

He's being gently shaken awake before he even realizes he fell asleep.  He squints as Ian, grinning, comes into view beside him.

“Always loved the way your eyebrows woke up before the rest of you,” Ian teases fondly.  The car is parked in the driveway of an enormous townhouse.

“We here already?  How long was I out?”  Mickey wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, thankful that it wasn't long enough to have another memory-dream.

“‘Bout a half hour.  You always sleep hard when you and me come back together.  Two days was a new record, though.”

“Coulda had something to do with the fifty years apart, maybe,” Mickey snarks back.  “How come you didn't go comatose too?”

Ian shrugs.  “Dunno.  You and me have always been different that way,” he deflects.  He's a bad fucking liar.  It's obvious he's not saying everything.  He avoids Mickey’s eyes.  “You ready to do this, or what?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Ian shoots Mickey a quick look of confusion at Mickey's sharp tone as they get out of the car, and Mickey glares right back.  Ian's supposed to be helping him remember shit, not keeping him in the dark.

Ian clears his throat and leads the way up the manicured lawn.  He raps quickly and loudly on the door.  Mickey scuffs his feet and tries to quell his sudden nervous energy.

“Mickey fucking Milkovich, in the flesh,” an older man, at least in his forties, with piercing blue eyes greets as soon as the door to the townhouse opens.  “Never thought I'd see your ugly mug again.”

“Fuck off, Lip,” Ian says calmly, striding forward to envelop the older man in a tight hug.  Lip thumps Ian on the back so hard that Ian grunts.

Mickey tries to hide his surprise at seeing Lip.  He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t some middle aged man.  Ian had said Lip was like them.  Mickey’d  just assumed Lip would look pretty young.

“At least with this one you don't have to call me uncle,” Lip continues.  He smirks at Mickey and then asks Ian pointedly, “So how's your husband?”

Ian groans.  “Jesus, Lip we talked about this!”

“Right,” Lip says, nodding.  He stares hard at Mickey, his icy gaze off-putting.  “Amnesia.  Real convenient.”

“You think I'm fucking making it up?” Mickey snaps, raising incredulous eyebrows at Ian, who just shrugs and rolls his eyes.

“Lip,” Ian jumps in, voice strangely pleading and warning at the same time.  “We came here for your help.”

Lip says nothing, just continues to look pensively at Mickey.  Mickey hates the fact that he breaks first.

“Come in,” he says finally.  “Take off your shoes.”

“Where's Amanda?” Ian asks as they toe their shoes off in the entryway.

“Paris,” Lip says nonchalantly.  “Spending all my money, probably.”

That doesn't seem like something they have to worry about to Mickey.  This is the fanciest house he's ever been in.

Mickey follows behind Ian as Lip leads them to a study off the large marble foyer.   It’s a little cozier than the rest of the house appears to look, from what little Mickey’s seen. There’s plush carpet under their feet.  Three walls are built in shelves filled floor to ceiling with books.  On the fourth wall, framed photos flank the enormous window.  Mickey tries to get a glimpse as they head to the two leather couches across from one another in the center of the room.  Most of the pictures are in black and white.  The largest, a colored photograph,  is of  a very young looking Lip and a beautiful, dark haired woman on their wedding day.   _Amanda_ , Ian had said in passing.  Judging by the puffy sleeves of Amanda’s wedding dress and the color of Lip’s tux, they’d married sometime in the eighties.

Lip takes a spot in the middle of the leftmost couch.  Mickey and Ian hesitate awkwardly before sitting a few feet away from one another on the other.  It’s strange and confusing, going from feeling connected one moment to strangers the next.  Lip raises an eyebrow, looking between them.  Mickey coughs, and Lip’s eyebrow goes higher.

“Been spending lots of time together lately?” he deadpans.  Mickey and Ian flip him off simultaneously, and Lip snorts, shaking his head.  “That answers my question.  So.  Start from the beginning,” Lip advises, leaning back on the couch as he looks expectantly at Mickey.  Mickey slides his eyes over to Ian, who nods in encouragement.

Mickey sighs.

“Not much to fucking tell.  Woke up in the hospital miraculously healed from taking a bullet to the back of the head.  No idea who I was or whatever.  Waited around a little while, no one came for me.  So I took off.”

Lip nods.  He's clearly heard this part from his brother.  Lip turns to Ian.  “And you couldn't feel where he was going,” he says matter of factly.

“You know I couldn't, you fucking helped me look! You know I've never been as tuned into that,” Ian insists defensively, jerking a thumb toward Mickey.  “He’s always been the one who found me!”

“I have to do that a lot?” Mickey asks acerbically, already guessing the answer as Ian goes rigid.  The longer he spends with Ian the more he can sense that things weren’t always right between them in the past.

“So where were you?” Lip interrupts, keeping his brother from having to answer.

Mickey shrugs.  “All over.  Couldn’t really get settled.  Spent most of the time in Eastern Europe.”

“Ah,” Lip says.  “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Mickey asks suspiciously.

“We don’t have great contacts over there.”

“Contacts?” Mickey repeats, looking to Ian in confusion.

“He wasn’t even hiding his abilities,” Ian tells Lip, exasperated.  “He was a fucking side show act for the Russian circus.”

“Hold up!” Mickey shouts in frustration.  “It’s like you people are talking in fucking code!  What the fuck are you talking about?”  Ian, at least, has the decency to look chagrined, but Lip just stares, mouth puckered in thought.

“You really don’t fucking know,” Lip says after a beat.  “Holy shit.”

“I told you,” Ian says to Lip, vindicated.  Lip waves him off, turning to Mickey again.

“So tell me the very last thing you remember.”

“I already told you,” Mickey insists, rolling his eyes.  “I woke up in the hospital.”

“And nothing before that.  Not even a flash?  A sense of deja vu?”

“Maybe,” Mickey hedges, looking at his hands.  “I don’t know.”

“Are you remembering more?” Ian asks urgently, picking up on Mickey's nerves.  “Mick?”

Mickey huffs.  “I don't know.  I've had a few dreams lately.  Some weird memories maybe, but I'm not sure if they're real or not.  Maybe it just because we looked at those pictures.  Or because of the shit you told me.”

“Tell me.”  Ian leans forward eagerly.

Mickey hesitates.  “We were on a hill.  Sledding.  Just me and - just me and Yevgeny.”  Ian furrows his brows, trying to put the pieces together.  “You weren't there,” Mickey tells him.  “I remember that.”

“Oh,” Ian says, barely concealing his disappointment.  “Well, we didn't do everything together.”

“No.  I mean you weren't _there._ You weren't just not with us that day.  You weren't around, period.”

Ian just stares, blank faced, for a moment.  He says nothing.  The sensation that there’s something Mickey hasn't been told - something important - returns.  The feeling makes his gut roil.

“What else?” Lip prods from across the coffee table.

Mickey thinks about the way the pictures had just filled in for him when Ian had told him about the day they'd been attacked.  How he can picture them dancing, holding one another close.

He thinks about the way that innocent sledding dream had twisted into something terrible.  He hears Yevgeny”s yells, sees his father's snarl and Ian's pleading eyes.

“Nothing.”  Neither Ian nor Lip look satisfied with this answer, but Mickey keeps his mouth shut.  After an awkward silence, Mickey finally snaps at Lip, “You're supposed to be explaining shit to me, ain't you?  Not the other way around.  So get talking.”

“Yeah,” Lip says slowly, looking from Mickey to Ian, then back again.  “Okay.  Let me just-”  He slaps his knees, then gets up off the couch, moving behind the desk to grab his tablet.  “So.  What we’ve discovered is that there’s no real correlation with race.  There is a strong genetic link, though.  Means it runs in families.”

“I know what genetics is, asswipe.”  Mickey scowls, and Lip half smirks.

“Anyway, there’s not any sort of gene mutation, from what limited blood work we’ve done.  Our DNA looks the same as anyone’s.”

“Blood work,” Mickey repeats.  “DNA - who the fuck is volunteering for this?  And how many of us are there?”

“ _You_ volunteered, once upon a time.  And there's not a lot of us, as it turns out.”  Lip taps at his tablet and then sets it on the coffee table, turning it so Ian and Mickey can look at it.  It's a graph documenting the number of fated pairs over the last century.  Mickey's eyes drag over the graph until he gets to the present day.  1,400 known pairs.  2,800 people like him in the world.  Lip points to the highest point in the graph.  “Less than a half a percent of the world population at its very peak.  But people have been wising up for decades now.  Maybe longer.  We're not having children.  Our siblings aren't having children.  We're keeping it from passing it on directly, as much as we can.  Dying out.”

“My siblings had kids.  Some of them might be like us,” Mickey says.  Ian opens his mouth to question him, so Mickey hastens to add, “I saw a family tree when I googled my first and last name.”

“Not according to my census,” Lip says, snatching the tablet back and pursing his lips as he pokes and types.  “Nope,” he confirms.  “Possible they haven't been discovered yet. We try to keep an eye on families with known links.”  He rolls his eyes.  “Leave it to the Milkoviches to buck common sense and do whatever the fuck they want.”

Mickey recognizes that it's an insult, but he's not exactly sure how or why.  He flips Lip off for good measure.  

“So you got contacts and a census, huh?  You keep talking like you’re the president of our weird little club,” Mickey snarks, and Ian snorts.

Lip puffs out his chest a little.  “Well, I kind of am.  This is my life’s work.”

“Seriously?  Researching _us_?”  Mickey raises his brows, looking from Lip to Ian and back again.  “How the fuck did you get so rich then?”

“I'm a biomedical engineer, my wife's a surgeon, and I'm over a hundred years old,” Lip supplies.  “It just sort of adds up.”

Mickey blinks.  It makes sense.

“So how'd you even get involved in all this?” Mickey asks.

“I grew up knowing I was different,” Lip tells Mickey.  “I was always stronger than the other kids.  Didn’t get hurt as easily.”  He snorts derisively.  “When our dad would get angry and lash out at us kids I never got hurt.  Once I threw him down the stairs when I was eight.  It started to get so Frank would wait to go off on Ian when I wasn't around.”

“Wait a minute.”  Mickey holds up his hand.  “Why the fuck would Ian get hurt?  He's like us too.”

Lip cocks his head, pointing his finger at Mickey.  “That's a good question.  It seemed like I was born with it, but Ian's abilities were intermittent.  He'd be scraping his knees and bruising like a regular kid, then one day he'd pick up the neighbor’s car.  Remember that?” Lip turns to his brother and they chuckle softly together, sharing a moment.  Mickey suddenly feels horribly left out.  “Anyway,” Lip continues, “we didn't know it then, but it was because of you.  Because we grew up just blocks away from one another.  You two are the closest geographical fated pair I've ever recorded.  Closest after you was a couple a hundred miles away.  And some people have to go across the world, like me.”

“So how come we’re still so fucking young then, if we’ve been near each other so long?” Mickey asks.  “Ian said that when we’re together we start to age again.”  He gestures to Lip’s face.  “You’re old as shit.”

“Thank you,” Lip deadpans, blinking.  “Well, it’s not like it’s an exact science.  We’re pretty sure the aging process stops after the teen years until we find our matches, and then it begins again as soon as the couple are together.  Guess even immortals aren't into pedophelia.”  He snorts at his own joke, and Ian and Mickey just blink at him.  “Jesus, tough crowd.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Mickey presses.  “If we met in 1916 and we were together til the sixties, how come I ain't stuck in a seventy year old body?”

Lip scratches his forehead, squinting.

“You gotta take into account the two tours, what, six years total?  Factor in Ian's multiple freak outs-” Mickey glances sharply at Ian, who’s looking at his hands.  That's fucking news to him.  Lip continues on, unaware ”-and the fact that you two couldn’t be together as conventionally, so you aged slower.”  He turns to Ian.  “How old do you tell people you are when they ask?”

Ian clears his throat.  “Early thirties, usually.  My fake documents say I’m thirty-one.”

“So how you gonna explain not aging to John, huh?  Won't it be weird to fuck him when he's all old and shriveled?” Mickey asks Ian.

“Ian doesn't mind old and shriveled,” Lip taunts his brother, sniggering.  Mickey raises an eyebrow and Ian coughs.

“Figured I'd tell John the truth sooner or later,”  Ian says to his knees, ignoring his brother as Lip smirks.

Mickey’ll have to get details on that shit later.  He’s got a lot of fucking questions.

“Anyway,” Lip drawls, pulling them back to the earlier topic.  “I went off to college and started researching.  You'd be surprised how many clues there are in ancient documents, especially mythology.”

“You're saying it goes back that far?”

Lip hums in acquiescence.  “By that time you were overseas, and we'd discovered Ian was like me.  I didn't really understand the soulmate connection right away.  Amanda hadn't been born yet.  I didn't feel the ache until the seventies.  I just thought we were immortal.  It wasn't until after you came home and the two of you, uh…” Lip trails off with pursed lips and turns imploringly toward Ian.

“When we got caught by your dad,” Ian supplies, voice tight.

Lip nods.  “That's when I knew for sure.”

The sudden memory of that day hits Mickey over the head like an anvil.  Last night's nightmare sharpens and brightens.   _Mickey dragging his father off of Ian.  Being beaten bloody with the butt end of a gun.  Dipping in and out of consciousness until Svetlana takes off her dress and hovers over him.  Ian biting his fist to keep the emotions at bay._

Lip is saying more, something about starting some sort of club, holding meetings and getting clearance from the government to do research - but Mickey’s ears are ringing and he feels suddenly hot and clammy.

“Mick?”  Ian scoots closer to him on the couch, interrupting his brother mid-sentence.  “You okay?”

“No,” Mickey bites out before he can stop himself.  His head is pounding.  He takes a breath and scrubs a hand down his face. “I mean - I’m fine,” he amends unconvincingly.

Ian furrows his brow in worry and grips the back of Mickey's neck with gentle fingers.  Mickey fights the urge to lean into the touch and stands instead.  Ian drops his hand onto the couch with a heavy thwack, defeated.  Across them, Lip leans forward, elbows on his knees, keenly interested.

“Gotta piss,” Mickey mutters, because this is all too much and he needs a fucking minute.

“Down the hall on your left,” Lip tells him, gesturing vaguely, eyes still narrowed in curiosity.  Mickey turns on his heel and escapes the room.

He sits heavily on the closed toilet lid after he locks the bathroom door behind him.  The bathroom is white and clean with marble floor tiles and a pedestal sink.  

He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, willing the awful memories to go away and searching for something more bearable to replace them.  Of course, it's just his fucking luck that all the bad shit comes to the forefront, after all these years.

He yearns for a cigarette like he never has before.  He hesitates for a moment before deciding fuck it.  He lights up in the bathroom and doesn’t bother to even crack the window.  Lip can deal with it.

He coughs as smoke fills his lungs, and he feels a shiver of pleasure as the nicotine rushes through his system, stronger than ever before.  He's been around Ian for days now.  If he can be this affected by a cigarette, he wonders what a beer could do to him.

Or sex.  Up until now it's been decent, never great.  No one’s ever had the power to give it to him the way he craves it.  He bets Ian could.

No.  He shakes his head to clear the confusing thoughts and images that flash through his brain involuntarily, like an out of control reel of film on a projector.  Good times and bad times, pleasure and pain intertwined tightly.

He wonders if he ever got over what happened between he and Svetlana and Ian and his father.  He wonders if he ever will again.

He's been in the bathroom far too long for anyone to believe he's not stalling for time.  Mickey tosses his cigarette in the toilet and flushes.  He stares at his face in the mirror.

Okay.  Okay.  Time to head back.  He opens the door and makes his way back to the front room, but stops short at the sound of Ian's hushed voice.

“I believe him,” Ian is insisting, voice quiet yet firm as Mickey approaches.  Mickey ducks further back into the hallway to eavesdrop.  “He could have come around at any time over the last fifty years.  I fucking held my breath at my own wedding, hoping he'd show up to object.”  Ian laughs bitterly and Mickey's chest constricts.

“I remember,” Lip says neutrally.

“It's just - the way he looks at me, Lip.  Like he doesn't know me, but he remembers loving me.  He can't fake that.”

There's silence for several seconds, and Mickey aches to move forward so he can see their faces.

“So what about John?” Lip asks finally.  Mickey holds his breath as he waits for Ian's response.  He's not sure which answer he wants to hear.

“I love him,” Ian says with feeling.  “So much.  And there's Charlie.  He's everything to me.  He reminds me of Carl and Liam and Yev all rolled into one.”

“But,” Lip adds meaningfully.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, sighing heavily.  “Fuck.  It's _Mickey_.”

Mickey can't listen anymore.  He takes a moment to settle his face in a neutral expression before he turns the corner, clearing his throat as he sits back down on the couch next to Ian.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Ian repeats back, smiling tentatively.  Across the coffee table, Lip sniffs the air, then raises a brow in mild incredulity.

“Did you smoke in my bathroom?”

“Way to put two and two together, Einstein,” Mickey retorts sarcastically.

“Listen,” Ian says, slapping his hands down on his thighs.  “I think Mick’s heard enough for today, maybe.”

Mickey thinks about arguing.  Lip looks expectantly his way as if expecting Mickey to put up a fight.

No.  Enough of this.  He and Ian have some shit to work out.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, after a beat.  “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

“Thanks for your time Lip, I appreciate it,” Lip snarks under his breath.  Mickey rolls his eyes and gets to his feet.

“Thanks, man.”  He holds out a hand, which Lip takes, eyes widening in bewilderment.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ian agrees.

“Here.”  Lip  holds up a finger indicating for them to wait, then trots over to the bookshelf behind the desk, pulling out a thick brown hardcover book.  He brings it over and hands it over to Mickey. “A compilation of my published research on fated pairs, if you're interested.  A little light reading.”  Mickey stares down at it.  “Ian can give you my number, too.  If you have any questions he can't answer.”

Oh, Mickey has plenty of questions for Ian.  Just nothing that concerns Ian's brother.  And he'd better get some answers.

“Uh, thanks,” Mickey says again, staring down at the heavy book in his hands.  Something tickles at his brain.  “I hear you say something about the government?”

“Yeah,” Lip says.  “What, you think they don't know?  You never wondered why you haven’t been taken down to a secret lab and been tested on like some guinea pig?”

Mickey scowls.  “Like they could.”

LIp snorts.  “You may be immortal but you’re not unstoppable.  If they thought you were a true threat they’d figure out a way.”

“Whatever.”  Mickey tucks the book under his arm and follows Lip as he lead the way back to the foyer.  Ian, silent, brings up the rear.

“If you guys ever wanna start up where we left off,” Lip offers as the other men toe on their shoes, “with my research, let me know, okay?  My most interesting fated pair just got even more unique thanks to that brain injury.”

“Most interesting?” Mickey repeats.  “What, because we're gay?”

“Part of it,” Lip admits.  “But mostly because Ian-”

“Thanks, Lip,” Ian says loudly, thumping his brother hard on the back.  Lip doesn't even flinch.

Lip shuts his mouth immediately, but Mickey doesn't miss the quick glint of confusion, then awareness that flickers over the older man's face.

“Yeah, anytime, man,  Call me, okay?”  Lip embraces his younger brother, then nods to Mickey.  “See ya, Mickey.”

And then the front door is shut and Mickey and Ian are alone again.

“So,” Ian says after a long silence, scuffing the ground with his toe.  “I think we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://lan-jev.tumblr.com/post/167679577998/ivegotitbad-lanjev-3-reblogging-this-beaut-so) is some fab photoshopping skillz by our very own Char in honor of Lip and Amanda's beautiful wedding.


	8. Chapter 8

_“_ _So,” Ian says after a long silence, scuffing the ground with his toe.  “I think we need to talk.”_

 

_“Yeah,” Mickey agrees.  “So talk.”_

 

* * *

 

“Not here.”  Ian gestures around them.  “Maybe we could get a hotel?  Two rooms!” Ian adds quickly.  “I’m not - it isn’t-”  He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing.

Mickey shrugs even as his pulse quickens a little at the unintended innuendo.

“Long as you’re paying.”

Ian chuckles despite the awkwardness that’s been settling around them.  “Yeah, sure Mickey.”

They get into their respective sides of the car, and Ian types into his GPS for a minute before setting them on the path to a hotel.  He taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music to stave off some of his tense energy.      

“So how can we be soulmates or whatever?”  Mickey finally blurts out when he can’t take the silence any longer.  “I’ve only known you for a few days and you already annoy the shit out of me most of the time.”  

Ian rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning.  “It isn't about always getting along.  It's about being with someone who challenges you, has passion for you.  Someone who like, fills your holes.”

Mickey snorts.

“ _Fills your holes_?  Jesus, Gallagher, you gotta work on your gay puns.”

Ian makes an aborted squawk of a laugh, eyes going wide.

“Wait a sec.  You called me Gallagher!”

“Yeah, so?”

“I never told you my last name!”

Mickey shoots Ian an incredulous look.  “Bullshit you didn't.  What the fuck are you getting at?”

“Mickey, you're remembering more things.  Unconsciously,” Ian tells him earnestly.

“I don't know,” Mickey says hesitantly, playful mood gone in a flash.  He’s not sure he really wants to remember more.  Most things so far haven’t been pleasant.

But Ian looks thrilled.  He’s practically bouncing in his seat.

“You used to call me Gallagher all the time!  When we were kids and we were still just fucking around. Mick, this is great!”

“It was on the letters,” Mickey suddenly realizes.  “I just read it on the envelopes.  I didn't remember.”

Ian's grin falters.  “Oh.  Well.  You're remembering other things though, right?”

“Yeah, like how shitty my life was.”

Ian positively slumps.  “Don't say that, Mick.”

“It's true, ain't it?  Can't imagine all this shit you're not telling me is about how incredible our life was together!”

“It was incredible!” Ian insists, punching his thigh.  “It wasn't always easy but it was worth it.  I swear.”

“So tell me about it then.  And start from the beginning, like you were supposed to the first time.”

“Can we wait until we get to the hotel, _please_?  I can't think and drive at the same time.  Unless you wanna drive,” Ian offers, flustered.

Mickey shakes his head.  “Don't know how.”

Ian snorts derisively.  “Bullshit you don't know how!  You drove all the time!  You could hotwire a car in under a minute!”

Mickey raises incredulous brows.  “I used to hotwire cars?”

“What, like you're surprised by that?” Ian grins, and Mickey shrugs.  Honestly, not really.  Ian laughs, sharp and explosive, still smiling.  The abrupt change in Ian’s moods in such a short span of conversation is a little unnerving, but Mickey shrugs it off.  It’s been a weird day.  

They pull into the parking lot of a Radisson and step out of the car.  Mickey tucks Lip’s research book under his arm as Ian opens the backseat and pulls out a duffel bag.

“You planned this?” Mickey asks suspiciously.

Ian shakes his head as he comes around to Mickey's side.  “I always keep an extra outfit in my car because of my job. It’s just coming in handy today.”  He leans forward and shoves his baseball cap onto Mickey's head.  Mickey swats his arm away but readjusts the cap further down on his forehead.  He might not be in Chicago, but he _is_ national tabloid fodder.  Would be pretty shitty for John to turn on the news tonight and see Mickey and Ian heading in or out of a hotel together.

Ian books two rooms while Mickey hangs back in the lobby, avoiding the eyes of anyone who glances his way.  Finally Ian comes up to him, holding out two room cards.

“They didn’t have any next to one another, but at least we’re on the same floor.”

Mickey snatches one of them.  “The fuck would we need rooms next to one another for?  You planning on sneaking into my room in the middle of the night?”

“You wish,” Ian snarks back, leading the way toward the stairs. “You uh, wanna go grab something to eat before we do this?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, although he is feeling pretty hungry.  “Let’s get this shit over with.”  Ian’s stalled long enough.  “I’ll come right to your room.”

“You don’t wanna relax a little first?” Ian wheedles.

“Listen man, the longer you drag this out the worse it’s gonna be, alright?”  Ian winces, then he nods jerkily.  Fuck, whatever he’s got to say must be a real doozy.

Mickey follows Ian up the stairs and down the hallway until they stop in front of 224.  Ian slides his key card into the lock and waits for the green light to flash.  And then they’re stepping over the threshold into the hotel room together.

It’s a typical hotel room.  There’s just the one bed.  A small desk and chair along the far wall.  A television and dresser, and a door into the bathroom.

And a mini fridge.  Fucking jackpot.

Mickey drops the book and Ian’s cap onto the dresser and toes his shoes off out of habit.  He pads to the mini bar to grab a beer.  It'll probably cost ten bucks to drink, but Ian's obviously loaded, so he doesn't worry too much about it.

“You want a beer?” Mickey offers.

“No thanks.”  Ian watches Mickey pensively as Mickey tosses the cap and takes a long drink.  “I shouldn’t, anyway.”

Mickey shrugs.  Ian sets his bag down and settles on the bed after a moment’s hesitation.  They stare at one another.  Finally, Mickey settles himself in the desk chair.  No way he should park his ass on the bed next to Ian.  It’d be too intimate, too inappropriate.  

“Okay,” Ian says.  “So I told you how we started hooking up.  You came after me for messing with Mandy and we fought and fucked.”  Mickey nods, taking another swig of his beer.  “Anyway,  we did that for a while.  Just hooking up.”

“No more fighting and fucking?” Mickey teases.

Ian smirks. “Well, maybe we did a little of that too every once in awhile.  But it was good.  Easy.  Until it wasn’t.”  Ian sighs.  “We didn’t know we were soulmates then.  We both wanted to be together, but we couldn’t see how that was possible.  And you didn’t want to be seen with me, outside of work, as friends or whatever.  Afraid people would figure it out.  And I think- I think part of me thought that meant that you didn’t want me as much as I wanted you.”

Mckey leans forward onto his elbow and inspects the label on his beer bottle.  That wasn’t how it was, he knows it.  He can sense it.

“And I know that’s not true,” Ian continues hastily.  “But it’s how it felt.  Especially when we got caught by my dad and you enlisted.”

“Can’t believe I risked getting blown to bits to get away from you.”  Mickey shakes his head in disbelief.  It just doesn’t make any fucking sense.

“It was more complicated that that,” Ian tells him.  “You were so afraid of your father finding out.  And you’d just turned 18 and were starting to feel more connected.  To me.  It was scary for you.”

“Scarier than going to war?” Mickey scoffs.

Ian holds his gaze.  “Yeah,” he says evenly, quietly.  “Scarier than that.”

Mickey swallows.  He can sort of imagine how younger him must have felt.  Probably not all that different to how he’s feeling now.  Confusion.  Desire.  A sense that they’re meant to be together.  It is fucking scary.

“Anyway,” Ian says.  “Then you came back.  And I, uh, hadn’t exactly been an angel while you were away-”

“You fucked around on me?” Mickey snaps, interrupting.  Ian flushes.

“We weren’t like, officially together or anything,” Ian sputters defensively.  “You were gone for years!”

Mickey pulls his lips into his teeth, eyebrows raised.  Realistically he has no right to feel betrayed, but something about it stings more than it should.

“So who was it, then?”

Ian wrings his hands in his lap.  “Nothing serious.  Couple guys from the area.  There was this underground gay club I'd go to sometimes.  Met this guy there.  He used to buy me shit.  He was nice.”  Ian's mouth quirks into a grin.  “You helped me rob his place once.  Got shot in the ass by his wife for your trouble.”

Mickey winces.  So that explains the tiny puckered bullet wounds on his left ass cheek.  He'd always wondered.

“His wife?” Mickey repeats.  “How the fuck old was he?”

Ian chuckles awkwardly.  “Uh, he was my sister’s husband's father.”

Mickey whistles.  Lip’s comment about old and wrinkled makes more sense.  “Jesus.”

“But it was just you and me again when you came back.  And then we got caught again.  By your dad.”

Mickey shakes his head. He doesn't want to revisit that anymore.  The memories that swirl around in his brain are enough to give him sleepless nights for eternity.  “Listen, we don't gotta talk about that.  What happened after?”

Ian shrugs.  “You went and got married, so I stole Lip’s identity and joined the army.  Didn’t last long, like I said.  And then, uh, I sorta wandered for a while.  Until you found me and brought me home.”

“Home.  To live with me.”

Ian smiles.  “Yeah.  You and Yev and Svet, and Nika, eventually.  And things were really fucking good.”

“What about my dad?” Mickey wonders.   He can’t imagine him living with the same dude he’d been caught fucking would go over well.

“Dead, thank fuck,” Ian says with feeling, not even bothering to hide his glee.  “Went back to prison for a parole violation and died there while I was away.”

“Good.”  Mickey means it.  

“So we lived together.  And we had a system.  Svet and I would take shifts with Yev when I was off while you worked.  We got to sleep in the same bed at night.  It was good.  Great.”

“So what the fuck went wrong then?”  Mickey demands, because all of this sounds pretty idyllic to him, and he needs to know when the other shoe dropped.

Ian opens his mouth to answer, but is interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone.

“Sorry.”  Ian swings his legs off the bed and onto the ground, pulling his phone out of his front pocket.  “It’s John.”  He gives Mickey an apologetic look, and Mickey nods, trying to hide his annoyance.  They keep getting fucking interrupted every time they’re getting somewhere.

“Yeah.  I’ll just-” he gestures awkwardly to the sliding glass doors and pats his pants pockets for a cigarette.

“Sorry,” Ian says again, before standing and turning his back, bringing the phone to his ear.  “Hello?”

Mickey unlocks the door and steps onto the tiny patio, closing the door firmly behind him so he won’t overhear anything.  He scowls when he can still hear the timbre of Ian’s voice through the glass.

He turns his back and busies himself with lighting his cigarette.  The patio is hardly big enough for one person to stand comfortably.  The view is shit too.  Strange though, that he doesn't feel that _pull_ that he usually does when he ventures outside of Chicago.  Probably because it isn't the city that calls to him, but Ian himself.

He exhales the smoke from his first drag, enjoying the buzz of nicotine that tickles his bloodstream.  He’s gonna like being a smoker even more if he and Ian stick together.  He’ll probably die of fucking lung cancer though, so there’s that.  He wonders, idly, if people like them get affected by that sort of shit once they lose their immortality or whatever.  Maybe Lip knows.

It’s hot out.  Mickey unzips his sleeveless hoodie and pulls it off of his shoulders to get a little relief from the heat. He smokes his cigarette to the filter and stubs it out on the railing, then tosses it down into the grass below.  He turns back to the room.  Ian is standing, feet away, looking right at him as he continues talking.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Mickey sees more than hears Ian say through the glass.  “ _Okay.  Love you too_.”

It hits him again, harder than it has before.  

Ian is married. He has a husband and a stepson and a career outside of all of this.  And even though they’re soulmates or whatever, it still doesn’t change that.

“Hey.”  Suddenly Ian is pulling open the sliding glass door and standing on the threshold, phone back in his pocket.  “Sorry about that.”  He inhales deeply and smiles.  “Missed the smell of your cigarettes.”

Mickey pulls his lips into his teeth.  “How’s John?”

“Good,” Ian says, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the change of subject.  “Just checking in, you know.  Charlie had a baseball game today.  His team lost.”

“Shit.”  Mickey swipes at his lips with the pads of his fingers.  “Sorry you had to miss it.”

Ian shrugs.  “It’s okay.  I’ve gone to all the rest of them.”

Mickey can picture Ian sitting there in the stands, cheering on his stepson, probably in a goofy matching jersey and a foam finger like the dork he is.

Mickey wonders if Yevgeny played any sports.  If they’d once cheered him on together.  He doesn’t ask.  

“So, uh, you wanna come in and finish what we started?” Ian asks finally, jerking his head back toward the room.

Mickey nods and follows Ian back inside, closing the balcony door and tossing his hoodie onto the desk with the rest of his shit.  Ian resumes his position on the bed, back against the headboard as Mickey takes his seat on the chair.

“Where were we?” Ian wonders rhetorically.

“You were about to tell me how everything got fucked up,” Mckey reminds him, more snidely than he intended.  

“Right.”  Ian purses his lips.  “So you brought me home and we started living together.  And then shit started happening to me.  I started to -”  he stops, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Started to what?” Mickey prompts.

“Uh, go crazy, I guess?”  Ian laughs a little, like it’s a joke.  But Mickey’s blood goes cold.

“You mean go crazy like, get restless, or?” he lets the rest of his question hang there.

Ian huffs.  “Crazy as in certifiable.  Literally.”

“What?”  He isn't sure the question actually comes out of his mouth.  Blood is pounding in his ears.

“They called it manic depression then.  It's Bipolar Disorder now,” Ian says carefully.  “I was never officially diagnosed, but that's what I think it is.  What my mom probably had, too.”  Ian's mother.  The one who killed herself in the nut house.  “It started out with the depression,” Ian continues on.  “Couldn't get out of bed for a week the first time.  Just hit me all of a sudden.”

He remembers the smell.  Ian stunk like sex and sweat and piss.  He remembers the feeling too, of panic and helplessness as Ian lay there, sometimes shouting but mostly silent.

His head hurts and his chest aches.

“But the mania was almost worse, after a while.  I couldn't stop moving.  I couldn't sleep.  Got all these wild ideas.  I couldn't tell I was manic, or maybe I didn't want to.  I don't know.  But I made some fucked up decisions and-” Ian swallows.  “And I really hurt you.”

“You hurt me,” Mickey repeats dumbly.  “Hurt me how?”  Ian raises guilty eyes to Mickey's face, and he knows.  “You _did_ fuck around on me,” Mickey accuses sharply, chest constricting.

“Mick,” Ian pleads, sitting up straight but keeping his distance.  “Please.”

“Please, what?”  Mickey snaps.  “Forgive you? What the fuck, Ian?”

“You gotta understand,” Ian says desperately.  “I was sick, and confused, and lashing out.”

“Lashing out at _me_?”

Ian groans and bends his head down to his knees, rubbing his face aggressively before sitting up straight again.  “I don’t know, maybe a little.  But lashing out at myself, mostly?  I didn’t know who the fuck I was most of the time.  I didn’t even recognize myself.  And you were so good and trying so hard to keep me stable.  But I didn’t want anything to be wrong with me.”

“So you thought to prove that you'd just fuck other people, huh?” Mickey snaps.

“Knew I shouldn'ta led with that,” Ian mutters lowly to himself.

“How many times?” Mickey demands.

“Two or three?” Ian guesses.  “Then never again, Mick, I swear to you.”

Mickey inhales and exhales.  “And I knew about this before?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.  “You probably weren't happy about it then either, but we never really talked about it.  I was ashamed and just wanted to pretend it never happened.  And you were just focused on getting me better.”

“Did you?”  Mickey almost hates to ask.

Ian sighs.  “The only way I got better was when we weren't together.  Because when we’re together, we become more human.  More like ourselves.  And when we’re apart…”  He gestures vaguely to Mickey.  “You know.  Indestructible.”

“So what happened?” Mickey prompts hollowly, already knowing the answer.  Knowing himself.  

Ian stares at his hands.  “You told me to leave.”

Mickey's stomach clenches.

“Did you?” he repeats.

“You didn't give me much of a choice,” Ian says ruefully.  “But it probably hurt you more than it did me.  You’d do anything to keep me well, Mick, even break your own heart.”  He pauses to clear his throat and collect himself.  Mickey swallows down his own sudden threat of tears.  “You didn't ever last very long before you’d let me come back.”  Ian shrugs.  “And that's how it was for a while.  I’d start showing the signs again.  Fast talking.  Hardly sleeping.  Abrupt mood swings.  And then you’d tell me to leave, and then you’d come for me after a while.  Rinse and repeat.”

“So what, I just kept coming after you like some bitch?”  He sounds pathetic, his past self.  And what's worse, he can see himself doing it.  For Ian.  Because he’s fucking drawn to this stranger, whether he wants to admit it or not.  

“No!” Ian cries.  “It wasn't fucking like that.  Jesus, I can't ever explain anything right.”  He tears his hands through his fiery hair in frustration.  “We just couldn't be away from each other.  We were drawn to each other.  Just like we are now.”  Ian bravely meets Mickey's eyes, and Mickey looks at the floor, remembering the heated kiss they'd shared in the storage room.  “So we did what we could.  Stayed together until I got bad again.”

“Bad like how?” Mickey probes, gut roiling.  “You said you didn't cheat again, so what the fuck did you do?”

Ian looks at the floor.  “Took Yevgeny without telling you and Svet once.  Thought I’d take him on a trip to see the ocean.”

“The ocean?” Mickey’s eyebrows are so high on his forehead he can practically feel his hairline.  “Ian, we lived in Chicago!”

“Yeah well, let’s just say I didn’t get very far.”  Ian huffs with false laughter.  “And uh, one time I thought some people were after me.  They chased me onto the roof.  I almost jumped.”

Mickey’s mouth falls open.  This is more than just a little unhinged.  This is fucking dangerous.

He thinks about the warning signs Ian had mentioned.   _Fast talking.  Hardly sleeping.  Mood swings._ He’d asked Ian, in the car on the way up, why he doesn’t sleep hard like Mickey when they’re together.  Ian had blown him off.  His up and down mood swings in the car, just an hour ago on the way to the hotel.  It’s happening.  Already.  Because Mickey is back in his life.

“All this,” Mickey says slowly, when he can find his voice again.  “All this because of me?”

“No,” Ian argues insistently.  “It has nothing to do with you.”

“How the fuck ain’t it my fault?  It only happens when you're with me.   _I’m_ the one who makes you go crazy.  Holy fuck.” Mickey rises.  Paces the room a few time.  Ian watches him from his spot on the bed, body tense, like he’s poised to jump up and grab Mickey if he tries to run.

That’s what he’s gotta do.  He has to get out of here.

He snatches his hoodie from the table and yanks it on.

“Mickey!” Ian yelps.  “Mickey, what-”

“I’m not fucking doing this.”

“Come the fuck on, Mickey!” Ian yells, slamming a fist into the mattress.  “Just because we're soulmates doesn't mean everything will be perfect!  It means that we're supposed to go through this shit together!”

Mickey shakes his head violently.  He grabs the baseball cap and the research anthology from the table and storms over to his shoes.

“Don't do this, Mick,” Ian pleads, leaping off the bed to trail him to the door.

“No.  No fuckin’ way.”  

“Mickey,” Ian begs, and Mickey has to press the palms of his hands into his eyes to stop the stinging threat of tears at the sound of Ian's voice.  Thank God Ian hasn’t tried to touch him.  He doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Not gonna let you suffer like that to be with me,” he manages through gritted teeth.  

“I'd be suffering _without_ you!” Ian insists.  “Mick, we've come to terms with this before.  We can do it again!”

“You gonna leave your husband for me?” Mickey challenges.  “Abandon your kid so you can go crazy?”  Ian opens his mouth, then shuts it.  “You're not,” Mickey answers for him.  “Because they deserve better than that, and so do you.”

Mickey pauses at the door of the hotel room.  His body is screaming at him to turn around.  Mickey can't resist the feeling entirely, so he takes one last look at Ian, standing helplessly by the dresser, tears in his eyes.

He's done this before, he's certain of it.  Left Ian alone and defeated like this.  But he doesn’t have a choice.  This is for the best.

He slams the door and takes off down the hallway, tugging Ian’s hat low over his eyes.  He’s not sure where the fuck he’s going, but it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s away from Ian.

And he thought his life _before_ all this was shitty. Turns out his first life was even shittier.  A son who'd been born from rape and died too young, a wife of convenience, a mentally ill lover.  For a moment he almost wishes he'd never saved John's life.

He ends up in a dive bar, still with that stupid fucking book under his arm.  Shoulda left it at the hotel.  He hasn't got much cash on him, so he orders the cheapest liquor his money can buy and a greasy burger from the meager menu.  The bartender makes some wisecrack about him being a scholar or whatever, then fucks off when Mickey raises his head to directly meet his gaze.  Maybe the dude recognizes him, maybe he doesn't.  Mickey's always had that “don't fuck with me” vibe regardless.

He downs three more shots and stuffs his face with beer nuts after polishing off a burger.  He chances joining a pool game and makes a couple hundred out of it.  He's had more years to hone his billiards skills than the guys he's playing with have been alive.  He's about to use his winnings to drown the thoughts swirling in his head in alcohol, when one of the guys slurs.  “Hey, aren't you that guy?”

“Probably not,” Mickey mutters.

“You sure?”  The guy rocks back on his heels and squints at Mickey.  “You look like that superhero dude.”

“Get that a lot,” grunts Mickey.  He tosses down his pool stick and heads toward the bar to pay his tab.  He knows where this is headed.

“Ain't that guy gay?” One of the others wonders, and the rest of the men in the pool area seem to perk up at that.  The first guy blocks Mickey's way.

“You telling me I just lost my hard earned money to a fag?”

Mickey stops dead in his tracks, turning to face the men slowly.  They form a half circle around him, six of them.  A couple look more curious than anything.  Two of them are definitely looking to fag bash.

“If I were that guy,” Mickey says, voice deceptively even.  He scratches his nose with his thumb.  “If I were that guy, you think it'd be a good idea to mess with me?”

Drunk dude number one puffs up his chest.  “You can't take all of us.”

Immediately two guys back away, not interested in the confrontation turning physical.  The other three remain, glancing a little uncertainly between Mickey and the asshole.

“You ever seen footage of that guy?  Mickey?” Mickey asks conversationally.  “You see the news clip of him pulling that school bus out of the ditch with his bare hands?  Or the one where that building collapsed on him downtown and he came out without even a scratch?”

Drunk guy swallows, hesitating.  “You aren't him,” he insists, all false bravado.  “You're bluffing.”

“Wanna find out?” Mickey asks, rolling his shoulders in preparation.  None of the guys move, including the instigator, who only stares, rocking on his feet.  Mickey shrugs, turning on his heel to head back to the bar.  “Too bad,” he says over his shoulder.  “You coulda told all your buddies you got your ass kicked by a fag.”

Yeah, he’s baiting them, but he isn’t expecting the hit.  A pool cue comes down heavy on his side and splinters into pieces on impact.  And while it doesn’t knock him to the ground, it does make him stagger a little.

Fucking Ian. Whatever, even if he’s a little weaker than  he should be, he can still take them.  His experience’ll make up for his relative lack of strength.

The men’s eyes are wide in shock, but none more than the first asshole, the one responsible for the hit.  He looks suddenly stone cold sober, and he stares fearfully from Mickey to the shattered pool cue on the floor.  It should’ve brought him to the ground.  Should’ve cracked a few ribs.

Mickey takes one threatening step forward, and the men scatter.  Drunk asshole trips over his own feet in his haste to get away, and ends up crab-walking out of reach until he can gather his wits about him enough to stand and hurry away.  Mickey doesn’t bother going after him.  It isn’t that fun, kicking someone’s ass when they don’t stand a chance.  It isn’t like fighting with Ian.  Evenly matched.  Exciting.  Arousing.

Fuck.

Mickey winces as he throws a few bills onto the bar and gathers his shit.  There’s a twinge of pain in his side where he was hit.  Maybe he’s lucky that shit didn’t escalate.  The bartender busies himself on the far end of the bar, studiously avoiding Mickey’s eyes.  The rest of the bar patrons openly gawk, though.  Mickey gives them all a little wave as he opens the front door.  Fuckers.  Hopefully this shit won’t make more than the local news.

It’s long past dark by the time he returns to the Radisson.  Not like he’s gonna say no to a free place to stay in an unfamiliar town.  He can feel the tether on his heart loosening ever so slightly as he walks to his room, fighting the pull towards the other man as he passes Ian’s room to get to his own.

He’s done an okay job of not thinking about Ian, or all the fucked up shit he’s learned today about himself and fated pairs and _Ian_.  The near bar fight was a good distraction.  Mickey dumps the stupid book he’s been carrying around onto the bed and pulls his shirt up to examine his side in the mirror over the dresser.  There’s a purple bruise several inches long over his ribs, and it’s sensitive to the touch when he presses on it.

He kinda likes it, the feeling of pain.  He feels alive.  Human.  He wishes he could feel this way all the time.

 _You could_ , says the little voice in his head.   _If you stay with Ian, you could_.

Mickey scoffs at his own inner self.  It isn’t that simple.  Ian has a husband, and a kid.  And there’s the whole _goes crazy when he’s around Mickey_ thing.

Fuck.  He’s gotta distract himself.

The book.  He could read Lip’s book.  Maybe he’ll learn a thing or two about all this.  The reason fated pairs came to be.  Or how to get out of it, aside from being with Ian.  There’s gotta be a way.  

Knowing Ian’s footing the bill, Mickey feels only the faintest of qualms as he empties his own mini fridge of all of the bottles of alcohol and dumps them on the bed.  Whatever, this definitely calls for an emergency drink.  Or ten.

He collapses next to his libations and pulls the research anthology into his lap.  He can’t imagine he’ll be very good at interpreting science talk, but he’s gonna try.

Mickey twists open his first beer and flips the pages in the book.   It seems to be in order of era, starting with Lip’s research on fated pairs in ancient times like he’d alluded to the other day.  Mickey scans it for any clues as to why fated pairs even came to be, but finds nothing.  Probably no one knows, not even Lip.

He reads Lip’s research on the genetic components, how it seems to run in families and the chances of passing the gene on.  It tends to skip generations, but it’s more common to affect siblings of the same parents who carry the gene.  Like Lip and Ian.  Mickey’s lucky he’s the only one of his siblings to get it.  Inherit it?  Whatever.  

And then he gets into the case studies.    

He reads about a fated pair from Greece, who felt the pull and the attraction but did not want to share their life together.  They’d arranged a date when they’d both felt they’d done enough in their lives, and they committed suicide together.  Ian had alluded to something like that in the car ride on the way up.  

And he reads about himself and Ian.  Their names aren’t mentioned, of course.  But there’s an entire, fifty page longitudinal study all about a fated pair who grew up three blocks away from one another, who displayed atypical bursts of strength as children and adolescents due to their close proximity.  Stomach in knots, he reads about Ian’s psychotic episodes, told more clinically and more detailed through Lip’s pen than Ian could, or would, explain to him in person.  It’s both more beneficial and even scarier to read that Participant A nearly threw himself off of a roof, that he would often lay in bed, unmovable, for days.  That the only thing that helped him improve was being away from his mate.

Until the fifties, when Ian participated in drug trials for what was then called manic depression.  Lip appears to have followed Ian’s case very closely, with detailed logs of medication dosages and symptoms.  It isn’t surprising, really.  Ian is his brother.  Lip would have considerable interest in it, for more reasons than it being necessary for his research on fated pairs.

The medication helped.  Mickey reads the section over and over again to be completely sure that he’s understanding it correctly.  Ian reported fewer symptoms of depression and even fewer symptoms of mania.  Mickey’s heart beats wildly with the thought that all of this could be fixed, just like that.  But the feeling doesn’t last long, as Mickey reads on.  Side effects of the meds were too much for Ian, and he resisted medication multiple times over the years. And then, they lost their effectiveness.

Fuck.  Fuck.

He can’t read any more.  Dawn is already rising when Mickey finally closes the book.  He tosses it aside and reclines further on the bed.  He’s fucking exhausted, physically and mentally, and his chest aches.  He tugs off his belt and tosses his jeans onto the floor.  The altoid tin he’s grown used to carrying in his pocket without a second thought hits the carpeted floor with a gentle clink.

Those tickets.  He’s been carrying them around for fifty years.  More than just the last piece of his old life, they're his last piece of Ian, right there in his pocket.

He’s too tired to allow himself to ponder the meaning of it all.  He's asleep just long enough to begin dreaming.  But there's nothing sinister in this one.  No, quite the opposite.

_He and Ian are young.  Late teens, maybe, and they're chasing each other in and out of alleyways, laughing and roughhousing, and occasionally shoving one another into the brick of the buildings to roam their hands over each other's bodies.  It's both innocent and electric at the same time.  Mickey's grin is wide and his dick is hard._

_He can't take it anymore.  Ian looks so good in his white t-shirt, navy vest and dark slacks, slicked back hair beginning to curl from the heat and exertion.  He pushes Ian up against the wall and steps between his spread legs, hands splaying over hard muscles._

_Ian's eyes are bright, and so green in the midday sun, even in the shadows of the alley.  Mickey wets his lips with his tongue and watches as those eyes darken with lust._

_“Do it, Mick,” Ian urges, voice husky.  He bucks his hips against Mickey's, eyes never leaving Mickey's lips.  “I know you want to.”_

_He does want to.  He’s never wanted anything more than to press his lips to Ian’s.  Ian’s hands settle on Mickey’s waist.  Mickey leans up on his toes, and Ian closes his eyes as they move closer, closer._

The shrill ringing of the bedside telephone jolts Mickey out of his first surprisingly pleasant dream in days.  He lays there as he listens to the phone ring and ring, certain he knows who it is.  He can’t talk to Ian right now.  He doesn’t know what the fuck he’d say.

When it finally stops, Mickey heads for the shower.  He ignores his neglected dick, which had gotten a few ideas from his dream, and focuses on scrubbing the dirt off of his body instead.

He wraps the scratchy white hotel towel around his waist and swipes a palm over the foggy mirror.  His own face stares back at him.  Confused.  Miserable.  Just as lonely as he's ever been.  His gaze falls on that tattoo, that rope and anchor he’s always hated because it had seemed meaningless and ugly.  It’s still ugly.  But it’s meaning - that’s what gets him.   _To symbolize togetherness - being joined to one another_ , Ian had said.

The bruise on Mickey’s side has shrunken and nearly disappeared.  Healing itself as Ian moves further away from him.

His chest steadily tightens as he stands there.  Ian's gone.  He can feel it.  Heading home, without him.  He's both grateful and disappointed that Ian didn't put up more of a fight.

Mickey pulls on yesterday’s clothes and exits the bathroom, spotting a piece of paper that’s been shoved under the hotel door.

Fuck, if Ian changed his mind about footing the bill, Mickey’s screwed.

But it isn’t a list of charges for the room.  It’s a note written on the back of a torn out page from the room service menu.

 

_I know you need space right now, but there’s so much more I have to tell you.  Please call me, when you’re ready.  Please._

_-Ian_

 

Ian’s number is scrawled along the bottom of the paper.  Mickey crumples up the note and then hesitates as he makes to throw it in the trash bin.  Fuck.  He smooths out the note again and adds Ian’s number into his phone.  Just in case.

Maybe he shouldn’t have run away.  He should have stayed, let Ian talk it out.

Too late now.  No matter what the note says, Ian’s already heading back to his real life.  With his real family.  There’s no place for Mickey in that equation right now, even if they figured out this whole Bipolar thing.

It’s more than just Ian’s revelation, Mickey finally admits to himself as he stands there, holding Ian’s note in his hand.  It’s the fact that there’s a history between them that only one of them remembers.  Ian would expect things from Mickey.  Ian remembers what Mickey likes, the things they used to do together, the people who’d been in their lives - important people, like their siblings and Svetlana and _Yevgeny_.  And Mickey can’t reciprocate with any of that.  Will probably never be able to.  

Besides, Ian already has a new family.  John and Charlie.  Chasing the person Mickey once was isn’t enough of a reason for Ian to leave his family.  Not that he said he was going to.  He’s not going to.  Would he?  For Mickey?

It’s not enough just to feel connected, tethered to one another by an invisible string.  It isn’t enough.

Is it enough?

Mickey sits heavily on the bed, still clutching the paper.

Ian won’t have John and Charlie forever, though.  They’ll get older and they’ll die, and Ian will stay the same.  And then he and Mickey’ll have to do something about their - situation.  Unless they wanna just live forever.

Fuck _that_.

He thinks about the fated pair he’d read about last night, that couple from Greece, who planned a day to off themselves when they were ready.  The idea isn’t entirely unappealing.  God knows Mickey’s been ready for years after a lifetime of loneliness.  Even though Ian had joked about it, Mickey can’t imagine Ian would actually go for it.   

Well, he doesn’t have to decide now.  They’ve been apart this long, another couple weeks or more won’t kill them.  No pun intended.   _Ha ha._

He should probably hear Ian out.  Mickey had loved him once, enough to try to keep them together despite everything.  Maybe Ian deserves to get it all off his chest.  Maybe Mickey deserves to hear it.  Maybe he’ll understand a little better who he was then.  A fucking softy, apparently.  Or maybe just lovesick.

He wishes he could remember what being in love felt like.  It’s one of those things, like his past memories, that feels just out of his reach.  Like he can brush the tips of his fingerprints against it, feel it touch his skin, feather light, but he can’t quite close his fingers around it.  It’s fucking maddening.

It's nearly check out time.  He looks it up on his phone, the next train to Chicago isn't leaving until 1:05.  He's got a few hours to kill still.  Maybe he should try to sleep a little more.  Get his thoughts off all this shit.

No.  With sleep come dreams, and even though the last one was pleasant enough, he’s not ready to go back to that place yet.

A knock at the door interrupts his musings.

Shit.  Maybe Ian really did shaft him with the bill.  Maybe he can muscle his way outta this.

He throws open the door aggressively, stopping it just before it cracks hard into the wall.  On the other side of the door, Lip raises a derisive eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Fuck are you doing here?”

Lip’s expression doesn’t change.  “What do you think?”

Mickey rocks back on his heels.  “He sent you.”

“Wanted to make sure you were all right.  Not gonna try anything stupid.”

Mickey glares, a little chagrined, because maybe trying something stupid had crossed his mind for a moment.

“You gonna let me in?”

“Whatever.”  Mickey turns on his heel and lets the door swing closed behind him.  Lip says nothing, just catches it and pushes it open for himself.  It clicks shut behind the two of them, and then they’re standing in the hotel room not unlike Mickey and Ian had done just the afternoon before.

Lip scans the room passively, eyes lingering on the unmade bed and his research book peeking out from under the blanket.

“Kinda surprised you stayed the night here.  Figured you’d be on your way across the world by now.”

Mickey shrugs, grabbing a beer bottle from the dresser and swishing it around.  He swallows down the dregs of the drink.

“Ain’t saying no to a free room,” he says finally.

Lip points to the book on the bed.       

“You read my research?”

“You gave it to me, didn't you?  Don't look so fucking surprised.”  Mickey goes over to the bed and grabs it, then hands it over to Lip.

“Got any questions for me?” Lips asks neutrally as he takes it from Mickey’s hands.

Mickey hesitates, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Just - this thing with Ian.”

Lip blinks.  “Bipolar,” he supplies.  “Most likely.”

Mickey exhales audibly, mind going over what Lip had written in his study.  Episodes of near catatonia.  Near misses with dangerous incidents.  “Does that - I mean, is it common for people like us?”

“No,” Lip says honestly.  “I mean, I’ve heard of very few cases of people dying of heart disease or cancer.  But usually old age takes us.  And no one with mental illness.  At least, not beyond the usual psychopath.”  Lips laughs shortly like he’s made a funny joke.  Mickey just stares at him.

Lip sighs.  “Look.  Bipolar isn’t a death sentence, Mickey.  There's all kinds of med combinations and therapy options these days.  It’d be different than it was then.  It'd take some work, but he would find the right fit.  And he'd have you.”  Mickey huffs.  Like he's a catch.  Lip smirks, cottoning on.  “I know, right, who’da thought you'd be Ian's perfect match?  Not me.”  He shrugs.  “But you are, and it works.  It’s good.  You don't remember what it feels like, to be fated to someone.  Soulmates.  Just being with them makes you feel-” Lip pauses, at a loss.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, worrying his lip.  He gets what he means.  He's felt it, in just this short time he's spent with Ian already.  Compatible.  Connected.

“You'll never find anything like it either.  You can try to move on, find someone else, but it won't work.”

Mickey snorts derisively.  “ _He_ did.”

Lip shifts.  “Look, Ian really loves John.  And he loves Charlie too.  But it doesn't compare to what you guys had.  Never will.”

“So you're saying you can still fall in love with someone other than your soulmate.”  It’s not really a question, because obviously Ian had done just that.  

“Yeah.  Sure.  Love isn't static, you know?  But some people are just better suited than others.”

Mickey considers this.  “So if I don't get with Ian I could find someone else.”  He hasn't had much luck with this one in the past.

“In theory, yeah.  Probably not though.”  Lip shrugs.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?  Ian found John.”  Lip strides forward and plops down in the desk chair.  “Yeah, make yourself fucking comfortable,” Mickey mutters under his breath.

“Shut up and sit down, Mickey,” Lip says easily, familiarly.  “You must not have gotten too far into that book.”

“Fuck you, it was really long.”  Mickey flops down on the bed, scowling.  “I read the important shit.  About me and Ian.”

“You read the shit about _Ian_ and stopped,” Lip corrects.  “Dunno why that surprises me.  It’s always been about him.  But I wrote about you too.”

“About me?”  Mickey’s mouth goes dry.  “What about me?”  Shit, maybe something happens to him when he’s with Ian too.

“Calm down,” Lip advises.  “Nothing scary.  The attachment’s just a little stronger for you.  Always has been.”

“Attachment?”  Mickey repeats, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah, you know, you feel him more acutely.  More in tuned to where he’s at, how he’s feeling.  Probably why you felt the pull to come back to Chicago.  Fuck, probably why you’ve been grumpy as hell for the last thirty or so years, too.  Not that you were ever a ray of sunshine before.”  Mickey flips him off, and Lip smirks, continuing.  “It isn’t totally uncommon.  I've seen it before.  Usually it’s due to some trauma or another.”

“Trauma?”  Mickey pulls a face. “Like what?”

Lip gestures vaguely.  “Take your pick.  Abusive childhood, poverty, combat, corrective rape, losing a child.  You should probably be more fucked up than you are, honestly.”  Lip laughs,  the way people do when shit is the exact opposite of funny.  Mickey shrugs in response, trying to will away the roiling in his gut at Lip’s words.

“Sorry,” Lip says, looking truly repentant for the first time since Mickey’s met him.  “Must suck to be relearning about all this shit.  Especially Yevgeny.”  

“You knew Yevgeny?”  Mickey’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Course I did,” Lip insists, looking mildly offended.  “He was my nephew.  We were family, Mickey.”  Lip pauses, considering as he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.  He leans forward in his seat. “He was a good kid, Mickey.  You did real a good job.  You should know that.”

Mickey swallows the sudden threat of tears.  Lip stares hard at him.

“Listen, man,” Lip says abruptly.  “I was looking into it.  There's shit you can try to do to get some memory back.  Hypnotherapy and all that.  Probably bullshit, but.”  He shrugs, scratching his chin.  “Can't hurt to try.”

Mickey looks at his hands and nods.  It ain’t a bad idea.  Even if it’s painful, he thinks he needs to know as much as he can.  He owes it to them.  To Yevgeny and Svetlana.  And to Ian.  Even if they never figure their shit out.

“Let me give you my number,” Lip offers, sliding his rolling chair up to the desk and grabbing a piece of complimentary stationery and a pen.  “In case you need anything.  Contacts.  New IDs when you’re ready.  Whatever.”

“Uh, thanks.”  Mickey takes the paper from Lip’s outstretched hand and folds it, stashing it in his hoodie pocket with Ian’s note.  “Might take you up on that.”

Lip nods.  He stands and clears his throat.

“I’ll get out of your hair.  You heading home?  To Chicago?”

Mickey shrugs, standing too.  “Guess so.  For now.”

Lip nods.  He rubs his lip with his finger and points to the book on the bed.  “You wanna keep that for a while?”

“Nah.  Take it.”  Mickey pulls it out from under the blankets and hands it over to him.

They stall a little, staring from one another to the walls and back again.

“Okay then.”  Lip heads to the door, while Mickey stays rooted to the spot.  Lip turns back before he opens the door.  “Listen, Mickey.  Just don’t - don’t leave him hanging alright?  Do what you gotta do, but don’t just disappear again.”  

“What, you think it's up to me?  He's the one who'd be giving everything up if me and him got together.”

“I think he'd do it if you asked him to,” Lip says honestly.  “It’ll always be you for him.  No matter who he’s with, it’ll be you.”

“He’s got a husband.  And a kid,” Mickey insists.  “He’s got a good job and a decent house and I-” he stops. Lip waits for Mickey to collect his thoughts, eerily blue eyes passive.  “I'm a fucking mess.  And I ain't that guy he remembers.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lip says neutrally.  “But you’d get there again.  And you’d be together.”  Lip puckers his mouth, appraising Mickey as he stands there awkwardly.  “I think you know already what you're gonna do.”

“You do?” Mickey looks up in surprise.

“Yeah.  Kinda your MO.  Wanting to put him first.  Fucking yourself over in the process.”

“That’s not -”, Mickey clenches his fists.  “It’s for me too.  I don’t-” He thumbs his nose.  “I don’t _know_ him.  I don’t love him.”

Lip sniffs.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, his tone utterly disbelieving.   He finally opens the hotel door.  “You need anything you call, alright?” he says over his shoulder.  And then he’s gone.

 

The train ride back to Chicago is the longest hour of his life.  He sits with his head turned to the window, Ian’s hat low over his eyes.  He’s pretty sure a kid takes a picture of him a few seats up.  Fuck, he’ll have to smash it later.

He’s got so much to think about, but his thoughts keep spiraling.  He should have run home.  Even though it isn’t physically very taxing, moving his body has always calmed his thoughts.

Does he ask Ian to leave his happy life with a nice husband and an awesome kid to shack up with him in the Back of the Yards?  To be put at risk because of Mickey being in the public eye?  It wouldn't be safe for them to stay in Chicago with the enemies Mickey's made, not since they lose their immortality when they're together.

And then there's Ian, and his disorder.  Would it really be better for him to be with Mickey and struggling to manage his mental health, when he could stay with John and be healthy and safe?  Mickey can hardly look after himself, much less be a supportive partner to someone who'll need to lean on him.  At least not now.

He's so lost in thought he barely notices when the train slows to a stop and people start to disembark.  He didn’t manage to snag that phone, but whatever.  He traces the outline of the Altoid tin in his pocket as he heads in the direction of home.  Fuck, he needs a drink.

When he walks in the door of his dark house, he immediately heads into the kitchen to get a drink.  He yanks the cord of the police radio out of the wall on his way to the couch and regrets it immediately as the silence bleeds into his brain.

He swallows a large gulp of whiskey and belches, putting his feet up on the coffee table and resting his head along the back of the couch.  He'd like to get so drunk he won't remember any of this, but the familiar loosening of the pull in his chest stops him.  Ian's close.

He sits there, frozen, on the couch until the invisible bungee cord stretches again.  So Ian was in the area.  Maybe he'd been planning to stop by and changed his mind.  Good.  Mickey's not ready for that.

Strange how the longer he knows him, the more he can sense Ian’s location - almost as easily as if he’s in the room with him.   _Attachment_ , Lip had said.   _Stronger for you than for him._

Fuck, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.

 

He manages two days stuck inside his head and determinedly ignoring the silent police scanner before he cracks and texts Ian.

_It’s Mickey.  meet somewhere and talk?_

He paces and smokes while he waits for a response.  The cigarettes do nothing for him now that he knows what nicotine flowing easily through his veins feels like.  Nearly an hour later, his phone buzzes.

_yeah.  your place?  I can be there in 30_

Mickey takes a deep breath.

_OK_

True to his word, Ian shows up promptly a half an hour later, knocking on the back door instead of the front.  When Mickey opens it, Ian is standing on the wood steps, shifting his weight nervously.  The wood groans under his movement.

He's wearing a light blue dress shirt with a name tag, Gallagher, on the breast pocket, and navy blue dress pants.  He's obviously come over from work.

“Faked sick,” Ian says a little sheepishly as Mickey looks him up and down.  “My boss just about fell over.  Haven't called in sick in ten years.”  Mickey pulls his lips into his teeth and nods.  “You uh, gonna let me in?” Ian asks, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Oh.  Yeah.”  Mickey backs into the house and Ian follows behind him, closing the door behind him.

Ian pulls his duffel bag off of his shoulder and sets it on the kitchen table.  Then, unspoken, the two of them each pull up a chair and sit down.  Mickey aches for a beer.  Something to keep his hands and lips busy.

“So Lip said he talked to you,” Ian prompts, voice carefully neutral.  

Mickey swallows.  “Yeah,” he says again.  “Look.  Ian.  I'm really glad that I met you.  Again, or whatever.  You helped bring meaning to my fucked up life.  And I'm gonna work on trying to remember you better.”

Ian lets his chin fall to his chest, exhaling heavily.  Finally he raises his eyes back to Mickey's face.

“But,” Ian prompts, resigned.

“You love John,” Mickey tells him.

Ian's lower lip quivers.  “Yeah.  I do.”

“And he loves you, and you got a bonus kid outta the deal.  And Charlie deserves to be done right by you.  And maybe- maybe you deserve a second chance at fatherhood.”

“He'll never replace Yevgeny,” Ian insists, mouth screwing up as he fights back his tears.

“Hey, I know that, alright?” Mickey reaches out on instinct to the back of Ian's neck,carding his fingers through the short, soft strands for just a second before his hand drops back down onto his lap.  “I gotta sort my shit out, man.”  Mickey rubs his hand down his face.  “And you got a real good life right now.  A husband and a kid who love you.  And I'm a fucking mess.  If you're gonna get sick again when we're together-” Ian opens his mouth to protest, but Mickey stops him with a gesture. “If you're gonna need me, then I have to be ready to do that.  Be there for you.  And I ain't ready right now.  I'm- I’m a fucking addict, man.  And people all over the city want me dead.  I gotta start over.  Start fresh, like you did.”

Ian nods, looking at his hands.  “You sure this is what you wanna do?”

“Think maybe it was meant to happen this way.  Things are getting better for gay people every generation. Won’t be anything like what we went through before.  And maybe by the time we're together again there'll be a cure for your bipolar, or better meds or something. You know?”

“Yeah.”  Ian sniffs and raises his head, eyes full of tears.  “Yeah, maybe.”

“Are _you_ okay with this?” Mickey prompts when Ian doesn't say any more.

Ian sighs.  “Yeah.  But I feel-”

“Guilty?” Mickey can read it on Ian's face.  He gets it.

“Feels like I get to have my cake and eat it too.”

“Yeah well, some guys get all the luck,” Mickey teases, and Ian snorts, the heavy moment lightening just a touch.  “C’mere,” Mickey orders softly, and he tugs Ian forward and into his embrace.  They both lean into each other's arms awkwardly over the table, until Ian moves his forehead so it's flush against Mickey's.

“What am I gonna do without you, Mick?” Ian's breath fans Mickey's face.

“You're gonna live a good fucking life with a guy better than you deserve,” Mickey says, pulling away, smirk on his lips.  “And then when the time comes you'll settle for my ass.”

“Nothing second rate about that ass,” Ian jokes back, laughing wetly.

They get up from the table without needing to discuss it.  Ian digs in his duffel bag and pulls out a key ring with a single silver key.

“For the storage room.  Take whatever you want, okay?  And keep my number.  I don't wanna lose track of you again.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, taking the key from him and pulling the Altoid tin from his pocket.  He sets the key on top of the tickets and gently closes the lid.  Ian is smiling softly at him when he looks up.  Then he swings his duffel bag onto his shoulder and heads for the back door, Mickey trailing him.

“So if I ain't ready in time, you’ll wait for me?  No second husband waiting in the wings when John kicks it?”  It's probably too soon to make a joke of it, but Ian laughs anyway.

“Yeah.” Ian reaches out to stroke the side of Mickey’s face, and Mickey can’t help but lean into his touch.  “Yeah, Mickey, I’ll wait.  As long as I need to.”

Mickey swallows his tears threatening to fall.  Ian drops his hand from Mickey's face and wipes at his own eyes.

“Okay,” Mickey says finally.  “I'll see ya soon, alright?”

Ian smiles and opens the door, tears glistening.  “Yeah.  See you soon, Mick.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick with me here, people! I promise, everything will be okay. If you need to talk it out, let's talk it out. But stick with it. It'll be worth it! One more to go, likely posted after Christmas because we'll all be too busy to read fic ; )
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [lan-jev](http://www.lan-jev.tumblr.com)


	9. Epilogue

**29 YEARS LATER**

* * *

 

“You sure you'll be okay?” Ian asks again as he closes the trunk of his car, the last of his bags packed.

“We'll be fine,” Charlie assures him.

“You need anything, you call.  And we're spending Christmas together.”

“Course we are,” Charlie says agreeably.  “But you guys are coming here.  No way I'm gonna go to Minnesota in the winter.”

Ian laughs.  “It's not _that_ much different from Chicago.”

“Still.”  Charlie grins back.  Then his face turns serious.  “Listen.  Thanks for sticking around.  Being there for him.  For us.”

Ian rests a hand on Charlie's shoulder.  Charlie's an adult now, nearly forty with a wife and kid of his own, and Ian could pass as his younger buddy.

“I loved your dad.  And I love you too.”

Charlie nods.  “I know.  Can't have been easy being away from Mickey all this time, though.”

“It wasn't always,” Ian agrees.  “But it was worth it.”  Raising Charlie.  Loving John.  Being a part of this family, good times and bad.  He would make the same choice again, even knowing everything that was to follow.

They hug tightly, patting each other on the back.

“Jesus,” Charlie wheezes.  “Ease up a little.”

“Sorry,” Ian chuckles.  “Don't know my own strength.”

“Bet you're looking forward to being normal again,” Charlie comments.

Ian hesitates.  It's been a difficult few months.  Losing John has been painful.  He was married to him for thirty two years.  They were best friends, confidants, had gone through so much together.  But a part of him, a huge part of him, was looking forward to seeing Mickey again.  To grow old with Mickey.  To never be apart again.  His soulmate.  His reason for existing.

“It's okay,” Charlie pacifies, correctly interpreting the look on Ian's face.  “You're allowed to be excited about it.  Dad would want you to be.”

Ian sniffs.  “Your dad was too good to me.”

“Probably,” Charlie teases.  “Call me when you get there, okay?  You planning on living with Mickey?”

It's so strange, listening to Charlie so casually discuss Ian's plans to start up another relationship after his father has just died.  But, Ian figures, Charlie's known about Ian's secret since he was a teenager.  He's had plenty of time to deal with his negative emotions about the situation.

“I don't even know what his life is like right now,” Ian admits.  “He might be seeing someone.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows in surprise.  “Haven't you guys been keeping in touch?”

“Not for a few years,” Ian admits.  “Didn't feel right while John was sick.”

“Have you at least told him you're coming?”

“He knows,” Ian insists.  “Trust me, he knows.”

“Right.  That spidey sense thing.”  Charlie rolls his eyes.  “Say hey to Mickey for me.  Always thought he was the shit as a kid.”

“Hey! What about me?” Ian feigns indignation.

“You're my dad.  You'll never be cool.  Hey, don't get all sappy on me!  You were doing so good!”

Ian laughs as he blinks away his tears.  Charlie hasn't often called him dad over the years, especially when they started to look more like brothers than father and son.  But it never fails to make him misty eyed.

“Love you, son.”  Ian hugs him again.  “I'll miss you.  But I'll miss my gourmet kitchen more.”  They both laugh.

“Yeah, Mickey seems like more of a hot plate kinda guy,” Charlie jokes.

Ian's got to get on the road if he wants to beat the morning traffic.

“Wish I could say goodbye to Margot and Andre,” Ian sighs.

“You saw them last night.  And you'll see us again soon.”

“I better,” Ian warns in his best dad voice as he finally opens the driver's side door.  “Bye, Charlie.”

“Bye, Ian.”

And he's off.

He's not as sad as he thought he would be, leaving Chicago.  It's been his home his entire life, all 150 years of it.  But Mickey is where he belongs now.  Chicago was home because first Mickey, and then John, felt like home.  Duluth will feel like home too.  Assuming Mickey's ready for him.  God, he better be.

Strange that Mickey ended up in Duluth of all places, the city where their lives as they knew it had been completely obliterated.  But it's almost like poetic justice, in a sense.  Mickey's taking back the life that the city took away.  And now they'll continue to rebuild - together.  Ian hopes, anyway.

It's been two years since Ian's texted Mickey.  Five years since he's heard his voice.  And twenty five years since he's last felt his touch.

Mickey’d stuck around in Chicago for a while after they'd decided to part ways.  Then they ran into one another completely by chance four years later at the storage unit, where Mickey dropped the bomb.  He was planning to leave Chicago.  Said he had to get away, start fresh.  Ian didn't blame him one bit.  Mickey'd stepped completely out of the limelight, and was being dragged through the coals by every media outlet in the city.  Ian stopped reading the paper and watching the news entirely during that time period, it was so painful to see.  Mickey hadn't looked well.  He was struggling to stay sober in addition to suffering constant character assassination.  He needed to get away.  They said goodbye again, and Mickey had tucked his nose into Ian's neck like he always did before and it took all of Ian's willpower not to beg Mickey to take Ian with him.

A few months later, Mickey was gone.  And Ian told John everything.  It went better than expected, for all parties.  Being able to be open with John, and eventually Charlie, about who he is and his past, was life changing for Ian.  He hadn't even realized it was so important to him, but the moment he exposed his secret, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.  

John, for his part, didn't believe him until he picked up the car over his head.  And then he’d asked Ian if he was sure he wanted to stay, when Mickey was the one he was meant to be with.  Just hearing that John was willing to sacrifice his happiness so Ian could have his was enough.  John really was too good for him.  In that way, he reminded Ian of Mickey.

Mickey kept his word and stayed in touch.  He texted to let Ian know he'd settled in Duluth and even shared a picture of the kayak rental place he was working at.  And that's how it went, for years and years.  The occasional “How are you?”, “I'm fine.”  Nothing too personal.  Nothing too emotional.

Until John was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at the age of 62.  The day they'd gotten the official word, Ian called the only person he wanted to tell.  Mickey had shushed him while he cried, told him everything would be okay, and if he needed anything just to ask.  Ian never called again, embarrassed to have leaned on Mickey in such an intimate way.  And when John died a few years later after a long battle, Ian asked Lip to tell Mickey for him instead of doing it himself.  Mickey had texted a single word: _sorry_ and it was all Ian could manage to text back _thanks._

Ten months of grieving, and it's time now.  Ian's ready.  Ready to love again.  Ready to love forever.

He checks into his hotel before he goes to find Mickey.  He’s got Mickey’s business address from Lip.  A fucking kayak rental and bait shop, right off the beach.  Ian has a hard time picturing  it.  It doesn’t mesh well with the image of Mickey in his head: the city boy who was never one for outdoor adventures if it didn’t involve guns or sex.

But, Ian supposes, Mickey’s lived more life without Ian than with him.  Who knows what Mickey’s really into.

The rental shack is a little ways off the beaten path, farther north from the touristy Canal Park, where Ian is staying, and along a more rugged section of beach.  He’s taking a chance by just showing up like this.  Not that Mickey won’t sense that he’s coming.  But Ian doesn’t know what he’s walking into.  Maybe Mickey’s got a boyfriend he co-owns with.  Maybe he’s just not interested in seeing Ian again.  Ian’s anxiety mounts as he parks the car in a small dirt lot across the street.  There are two other cars, one a forest green suburban, and the other a dark grey jeep with a kayak rack on the top.

A shack is a good word for the place.  The shop is small, probably only 15x30, if Ian has to guess  Painted bright blue with a large white sign.                  

       **Jack’s Kayak Shack**

 **Kayak Rentals and Bait Shop**     

The hairs on the back of Ian’s neck stand up as he hears Mickey’s familiar voice, drifting toward him in the wind.  Ian stops dead in his tracks, still across the road,  as Mickey helps a couple drag their kayak up the beach.  He laughs out loud as Mickey nearly topples the guy into the water with the force of his tug.  A brown labrador bounds around excitedly.

Ian's heart constricts.  The name of the shop.  The dog.  Yevgeny had owned a chocolate lab named Jack as a kid.  Is it a coincidence?

Although he must sense him, Mickey doesn't give any indication that he’s noticed him as he leads the couple into the shop, the screen door swinging shut behind them.  The chocolate lab sits on his haunches outside, tail thumping against the ground in anticipation.

Ian waits, shifting from foot to foot until the couple exit the store and head for the parking lot.  Ian lifts a hand in acknowledgement at the strangers, then crosses the street.  Now or never.

The dog barks in greeting, standing and sniffing at Ian’s hands, tail still wagging.

“Hey buddy,” Ian murmurs, stroking the dog’s head.

Then the screen door swings open, and Mickey is standing there, face unreadable.  Ian exhales.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Took you long enough,” Mickey chides, crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk.  “Started to think you forgot about me.”

“Amnesia jokes.  Really?” Ian teases back, and they step forward at the same time, embracing tightly.  Ian closes his eyes and presses his nose into Mickey’s shoulder, inhaling that familiar, particular Mickey scent.  When they release each other, Ian adds, “Wanted to be sure I was ready.  After John.”

Mickey nods, face softening in pity.  “Sorry about that.”

“Thanks.”  Ian swallows.  “Who’s this?”  The dog is whining softly, pacing between his owner and Ian with barely controlled excitement.

“This is Jack,” Mickey says, bending down to scratch behind Jack’s ears.  “Well, Jack 3.0.  Jack 2.0 kicked it about five years ago.”

“Jack,” Ian repeats stupidly.  “Like-”

“Yeah, like that Jack.”  Mickey nods, looking a little sheepish.

Ian laughs.  “Mick, you hated that dog.”  When Yevgeny was nine, Ian had gotten the brilliant idea to get him a dog.  On Christmas morning he brought out the puppy he’d stashed in the basement with a big red bow around its neck.  Yevgeny had been ecstatic, his parents significantly less so.  In fact, Ian recalls Mickey muttering under his breath about getting rid of it constantly.  

Mickey’s eyes go wide.  “No shit.”  He shakes his head, and they both chuckle.  “Anyway,” Mickey says finally.  “Thought about naming the place ‘Yevgeny’s’, but figured no one’d be able to pronounce it.”

“No, he’d love it,” Ian insists, touching Mickey’s shoulder.  “Yevgeny would be honored.  And Jack’s has a nice ring to it.”  Jack the dog barks in agreement.  Ian pauses, pulling his eyebrows together.  “Wait.  Does this mean-”

Mickey rubs the back of his neck.  “Went to this chick your brother recommended a while ago.  Hypnotherapist bullshit.  Guess it worked a little, though.”

Ian wants details.  He wants Mickey to tell him everything he remembers.  He wants to sit and reminisce about their lives.  Instead they stand there awkwardly for a full half a minute, saying nothing.       

“Gotta hose off these kayaks and close up,” Mickey says finally, gesturing to the colorful boats on the racks.  “You uh, got somewhere to stay?”

Ian’s heart sinks into his stomach.  So maybe Mickey isn’t so ready to invite Ian into his life.

“Yeah,” he manages, throat catching.  “At the Canal Park Lodge.”

“Canal Park, huh?” Mickey smirks, eyebrows raising.  “Went all touristy on me.”

Ian chuckles hollowly.  “Yeah.”

Mickey shifts his weight, appraising Ian with a hint of confusion.

“Listen man, why don’t you head back, get settled, and when I’m done here I’ll pick you up for dinner.  I know a good place.”

“Yeah?  Okay.  Great.”  The grin is already splitting his face, and Mickey smiles back, eyes lighting up.

“Great.  How’s seven thirty?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay.”  Mickey gives him a final appreciative glance, biting his lower lip in that way they has always riled Ian up.  Then he moves around Ian toward the hose, clearly intent on starting his work.

Ian pats Jack one more time, then backs away, reluctant to stop looking at Mickey as he bends over the water spigot, arm muscles rippling with his movements.

“What I should I wear?” he calls when he’s nearly across the street.  Mickey looks up over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.  He shrugs.

“Whatever you usually wear on a date!” he yells back.  And then they’re grinning stupidly at one another again.

Okay.  Maybe Mickey is ready for him.  This is good.

This is really good.

The next few hours pass by torturously slowly.  Ian leaves his room and walks along the boardwalk to have something to do.  The beach is packed with tourists.  Far away in the lake, a barge makes its way toward the bridge.  And brave teenagers stand atop the Cribs, the eery, partially submerged concrete building peeking out of the lake.  Ian watches as one of the boys does a backflip off the structure and into the water.  Around him the beachgoers cheer and chatter.

The last time Ian was here, the town and the beach looked remarkably different.  Fewer hotels, for one.  And the Cribs hadn’t been nearly as submerged back then.  But it smelled the same.  Sounded the same.  Before that awful moment blocks away from the movie theater, it had been a special place for Ian and Mickey.  Romantic.

Maybe he can see why Mickey ended up back here.

He changes into jeans and a polo when he gets back to his room, and stands in front of the mirror far too long fussing over his hair.  He hasn’t been on a date in over thirty years.  Fuck, he’s nervous.

Mickey pulls up in his jeep at 7:32, grinning behind aviator sunglasses as Ian opens the door and hops in.

“You drive now,” Ian comments.

“Just like riding a bike, turns out.  You like Italian?”

“Course.”

Mickey’s dressed up a little too.  Dark jeans and a grey collared shirt.  He looks good.    Mickey catches Ian checking him out and suppresses a quick grin.

“Parking can be kind of a bitch sometimes,” he warns.  “Got nothing on Chicago though, I guess,” he amends.

“I definitely won't miss that,” Ian agrees, and Mickey gives him that pleasantly puzzled look again.

“So why kayaking?” Ian wonders as Mickey pulls out into traffic.

“Didn’t plan it or anything,” Mickey admits, shrugging.  “Came up here looking to get away a little.  Didn’t have any skills besides - you know.”

“Yeah.”

“So anyway I found that Kayak place.  Out of the way a bit.  Not super touristy.  More for people who know what the fuck they’re doing out on the water.  And this hippie old guy owned it then.  If he knew who I was he never said shit about it.  Eventually he decided to sell, so I took him up on it.  Been running it for ten years or so now.”

“It was that easy?  Starting over?”

Mickey snorts.  “Nah, man, it was fucking shitty.  For a long time.  People still trailed me.  Tried to start shit.  You saw the news.  How could I fucking - _let_ people who needed me get hurt when I have this gift, you know?”  Mickey shakes his head, pulling his lips into his teeth.  “Still fucks me up sometimes, I guess.”

Ian inhales shakily.

“Mickey, I’m sorry.”

Mickey shoots him a look.  “You got nothing to be sorry for.  It ain’t about you at all.  It was about me, and turning my shitty life around.”

Ian falls silent.  He hopes that part of it had something to do with him.  He chances a glance at Mickey, at his face quickly losing the troubled expression as they drive.

“Ask me, man,”  Mickey orders.  “Just do it.”

“Did you?  Turn your life around?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, smiling brighter than Ian has seen him do in decades.  “I really fucking did.”  Ian smiles back, but something painful pricks at his heart.  A part of him, the selfish, ugly part of him, wishes that Mickey isn’t so pleased with his current life.  Without Ian.  He knows it’s awful.  He knows it.

“Anyway, what about you?  What have you been up to?” Mickey changes the subject, as if he’d gone on and on about his own life.

Ian sighs and rubs his forehead.  “The last few years have been pretty awful,” he admits.  “With John being sick, you know.  I just felt so-”

“Helpless?” Mickey prompts as he glances from the road to Ian

“Yeah.  And kind of like you, like, why have I been given the abilities I’m given when other people suffer, you know?  I spent a lot of time feeling guilty.  And angry.  Probably wasn’t a good partner in the end.”

“Doubt that,” Mickey pacifies gently.

Ian sniffs, willing the tears away.  “Thanks.”

“Found one,” Mickey announces suddenly, pulling the car into a spot on the street. “Restaurant’s a few blocks up.  One of the best views of the water.”

They get out of the car and head up the street, Ian letting Mickey lead them.  Their shoulders brush a little as they walk, and it takes Ian back to how they were when they’d been teenagers walking the streets of Chicago.  Barely contained desire for one another.  Buddies to the outside world.

Ian can’t wait to be able to hold Mickey’s hand.

“Hear you’re a granddad,” Mickey says, starting up the conversation about Ian’s life again.  “Fucking weird.”

“You’re telling me,” Ian snorts.  “He’ll be twelve soon.”

“Shit.”  Mickey whistles.  “Yevgeny woulda been a great-great granddad by now, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “Guess he would be.”

It’s nice, being able to talk about Yevgeny like this.  Ian had been able to do so with John, once he knew the truth, but it wasn’t the same. Like Mickey with Charlie, John wasn’t Yevgeny’s other father.  It’s something that only he and Mickey share.

“Right here,” Mickey says, touching Ian’s elbow to stop him in front of a brick building.

Mickey makes them wait twenty minutes to be seated on the grotto because “it's worth it, man”, and in the meantime they stand at the bar while Mickey regales Ian with stories of him and his buddies on trivia night at a local bar.  Ian can't stop grinning as Mickey gesticulates animatedly as he boasts about how no one in the bar understood how Mickey could know so much about 1970s Russia.

“You should come sometime,” Mickey offers, sipping his coke.  “I got a lotta holes in my memory, you know, but you and me together?  We'd be unstoppable.”

Unstoppable.  Together, they're unstoppable, in every way.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, body tingling.  “I'd like that.”

The mood shifts, from playful banter to something more.  Ian can feel it in his chest.  Mickey's eyes drop to Ian's lips for just a moment before he meets Ian's gaze again, shifting closer.

“Gentlemen?”  They're interrupted by a hostess, who's looking between them with a hint of a flush to her cheeks.  Mickey takes a tiny step back.  “I'll seat you now.”  She leads them through the restaurant into the small open air grotto.  The sun is just beginning to dip behind the horizon, illuminating the sky pink.  In the distance Ian can see the lift bridge and the lighthouse.

“Wow.”

“Nice, right?”  Mickey grins as they settle in their chairs, taking the menus from the hostess.

“First date?” She asks them, smiling shyly.

Mickey and Ian regard one another across the table.

“In this lifetime,” Ian answers finally, and Mickey fights a grin, turning his head away.

“Oh.”  The young woman's smile falters for a second.  “Well.  Enjoy.”

Their server comes shortly, and Mickey orders another coke, Ian an iced tea.

“Been sober for 23 years,” he tells Ian a little bashfully, peeking at him from behind his menu.

“That's so great, Mick!  How does it feel?”

“Good.  It was hard at first,” Mickey admits.  “Relapsed twice, in the beginning.”

“You go to meetings?”

“Sometimes.”  Mickey shrugs.  

“Hey guys,” the server interrupts, “Know what you're having?”

“Uh.” Ian frowns, looking down at the open menu in front of him.  “Maybe the lasagna?”

“I’m gonna go with the classic spaghetti and meatballs.”  Mickey closes his menu with a snap and hands it back, and Ian does the same.  When the server disappears again, Mickey continues. “Sometimes it's real hard to stay clean.  Especially when I turn on the news or read about all the bad shit going on.  But it's gotten better.  Every year the old me fades further into the background.  I'm like a brand new person.  Reinventing myself every fifty years or so.”  He grins, spreading his arms out wide.

“You're still you, though,” Ian tells him.  “Maybe the circumstances are different, but you're still you.”

Mickey snorts, attempting a little levity.  “Not sure that's a compliment.”

“It is,” Ian insists.  “I was sorta worried about coming back here after so long apart.  Thought maybe you'd be too different.  But even living in a different place and with not remembering your life before and all that, I  still see the same you.  The guy I fell for.”

Mickey doesn’t have anything to say to that.  He ducks his head in embarrassment, scratching his nose with his thumb.  One of his many tells.

Their food arrives, and Ian shares that he’s still working as a paramedic after taking an extended leave of absence during the last few months of John’s life.  He updates Mickey on Charlie, and Mickey is genuinely interested, a fact that warms Ian’s heart.

“Like to see him again someday.  He was a cool kid,” Mickey says through a mouthful.

“I hope you do,” Ian agrees.

“I’m real glad you got to be a dad again,” Mickey says suddenly.  “To Charlie.  Glad being apart has been worth it.  For both of us.”

Ian hums in agreement, feeling elated with the look Mickey’s giving him.  Anticipation.  Fondness.

“So is this where you bring all your dates?” Ian teases, grinning at Mickey across the small table.  Mickey's face is illuminated by the golden hued rope lights that hang from the ceiling.  His eyes look bluer than ever in the light.

“Eh, sometimes we get Mexican,” Mickey says breezily, eyes twinkling, and Ian laughs.

“Seriously though,” Ian says, rearranging himself on his patio chair.  “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Been hooking up with this kid who works for me - I mean, he ain't a fucking kid, he's like 23.  A young man.  Whatever.”  Mickey huffs, flustered.

“Glad to hear you haven't gotten into pedophelia,” Ian deadpans.  “Although, the hundred and fifty year age difference is a little creepy.”

Mickey kicks him under the table, but he’s smiling.

“There was someone.  For a bit.  But nothing serious for a while now,” Mickey answers finally, looking up at Ian through his lashes as he scrapes the rest of his pasta around his plate.

“Good,” Ian says softly, before he can stop himself.

They stare at one another, the air around them seeming to crackle with energy.

“Wanna get out of here?” Mickey asks him, biting his lower lip in that way that’s always gotten Ian going in the past.  “I’ll show you my place, if you want.”

“Check, please,” Ian bellows so loudly that the woman behind Mickey jumps.  Mickey’s eyebrows rise to his hairline in shock and glee.  

“Fuck.  Take it easy, tough guy.”

 _You have no idea_ , Ian thinks, as he grins at his former lover over the table.   _You have no fucking idea._

 

“Fuck!” Mickey hisses less than a half hour later as his fingernails scrabble for purchase on his mattress.  “Holy - Jesus Christ!”

“Missed this ass,” Ian murmurs, pulling his mouth away long enough to bite at the meat of Mickey’s left ass cheek.  “Missed you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey moans as Ian gets back to it.  “Like that.  Oh!  My God.”  There’s a loud ripping sound as Mikey’s nails tear the bed sheets below him to shreds.

It’s so hot, seeing Mickey come completely undone beneath him like this.  How long has it been since they’ve had the freedom to do what they like, be as loud as they like?  Too fucking long.

“Get on me,” Mickey orders, voice muffled by the pillow.  “Hurry up.”

Ian doesn’t need to be told twice.  He gives Mickey’s quivering asshole one last lick before rising onto his knees and shoving Mickey bodily toward the top of the bed.  The bed groans with their weight and movements as Mickey eagerly grips the wrought iron headboard.  Ian slicks himself up with the lube Mickey threw at them the moment they crashed into the bedroom and pushes his way in without preamble, gripping Mickey’s hips as hard as he can.  They both groan as they get used to the feeling of being connected like this, and then as one they begin to move, easily matching one another’s bruising pace.  The bed thunks against the wall so hard that Ian’s certain he hears cracking drywall, and when Mickey removes one hand from the headboard to grip Ian’s hip, the metal is bent and twisted with the force of his grip.

He wants this to last forever, but it’s been a long time since he’s had sex, been nearly a century since he’s had sex with _Mickey._

“Gonna come,” he warns.  “Fuck, Mick.”

“Harder,” Mickey urges, thrusting his hips back into Ian’s pelvis.  “Right there.   _Ian_.”

Oh, fuck.  His name on Mickey’s lips.  Desperately, Ian reaches down to help jerk Mickey off, certain he won’t last for longer than another few seconds.  Mickey groans and stills, dick pulsing the moment Ian’s hand wraps around him.  Ian follows him over the edge immediately, collapsing onto Mickey’s back in a sweaty heap.

“Shit,” Mickey breathes, letting go of the headboard and shoving Ian away so he can flop down on his back.  “Holy shit.”  Ian grins down at Mickey, laid out and beautiful in the light of the moon.

They both swear in shock as the bed suddenly gives an almighty screech and collapses onto the floor, frame bent beyond repair.

“We broke the bed,” Mickey says in disbelief, staring at Ian with wide eyes.  “Our fucking broke the bed.”

“And a chair on the way up here, remember?  Pretty sure your screen door is busted too,” Ian reminds him, laughing at Mickey’s expression.  “We’ve done worse.  This was mild compared to some of the other destruction we’ve caused.”

“You mean it gets better than that?”  Mickey runs a hand through his hair.  “Fuck, if I’d known I’da never fucked off for thirty years until you came around again.”

“It’s just after we’ve been apart,” Ian corrects.  “Once we’ve been together for a while it’s normal again.  Still good,” he amends quickly at the quirk in Mckey’s lips.  “Really good.  Just less - explosive.”

Mickey hums and turns onto his side.

“Tired, man.”

Ian huffs a laugh.

“Got anywhere you have to be tomorrow?”

“Day off,” Mickey murmurs, clutching his pillow, breath already evening out.  

“Good,” Ian says, more to himself than to Mickey.  “You might be out for a while.”  

The bed lays at an awkward angle.  Mickey’s side of the bed is slightly more elevated than Ian’s.  Ian hesitates, then rolls over on his side away from Mickey.  There’ll be time for cuddling.  Time for intimacy.  For now, Mickey needs to sleep.

 

The late morning sun wakes Ian up many hours later.  The room is warm and cozy, and there’s a body snug against his chest.  Guess he couldn’t fight the instinct in his sleep.

Mickey doesn’t so much as shift as Ian carefully disentangles himself. Ian stands at the foot of the destroyed bed, just looking at him, before nature calls and he makes his way to the ensuite bathroom.  This is the first real look Ian’s had at Mickey’s place.  When they’d come in the night before, there hadn’t exactly been time to look around.

The bathroom is spacious yet sparse.  A lone toothbrush on the counter.  A single towel hanging on the hook near the shower.  A separate soaking tub that might have a thin film of dust collecting on the surface.  Ian pees and shuffles back into the bedroom, collecting his jeans from the floor.  He can hear Jack whining from his kennel in the kitchen.  Probably needs to pee like crazy.

The walls are painted a warm, neutral tan, and there’s landscape art, photos of the Lake Superior coast, decorating the open stairway into the main level.

There's a cozy looking dark blue sofa facing the enormous windows showcasing the view of the lake a hundred yards down a grassy slope.  An enclosed gazebo sits near the water.  Ian can see a dock and a fishing boat, too.

Through the open living room is the kitchen, decently sized and updated.  Ian’s impressed.  The kitchen chair they’d shattered on their way through the house last night lies dejectedly on the tile floor.

Jack whines again, reminding Ian of his purpose.

“Hey, Jack.  Does Mickey just let you out in the backyard?” Ian wonders as he opens the kennel door.  Jack leaps out and bounds to the back door leading to the yard.  “Don’t run away on me,” Ian warns before he opens the door and allows Jack to scamper out.

Ian putters around the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee and looking around curiously.  The house is tastefully decorated, mostly with lake-themed art.  It feels like a cozy cabin.  Completely unlike anything Ian had been picturing on his journey up here.  He sees photographs in frames along the sofa table in the living room and goes closer to inspect, heart catching as he sees what they are.

Yevgeny’s bright face smiles back at Ian from his army portrait.  And Svetlana, Mickey, and a toddler Yevgeny stare expressionlessly at the camera in another.  Mickey and Mandy - that photograph Ian had taken of them on the docks - and one of himself and Mickey.  Their arms are slung around one another.  Ian is smiling at the camera and Mickey is smirking at Ian.

Ian hasn’t seen this photograph in ages.  He wonders where Mickey managed to find it.  He knows Mickey had taken some things with him when he moved out of Chicago, but he doesn’t recall this one.

The coffee pot beeps, and Ian heads back to the kitchen to search for a mug.  Then he takes his drink outside onto the deck.  The sun is warm, but the breeze from the lake is cool.  Jack races around the open space, lingering by the tree line that separates Mickey’s house from his neighbor’s.  When he sees Ian, he bounds back over, tongue hanging out of his mouth.

“Good boy,” Ian tells the dog as Jack plops down at Ian’s feet.

He's not sure how long he sits there, taking in the view, lost in his own head, but his coffee cup has long been empty by the time he decides to check on Mickey.

He lets Jack back into the house with him and the dog immediately bounds up to the couch and makes himself comfortable.  Hopefully Mickey doesn’t have a no pets on the furniture rule.

He peeks into a small study off the living room that he'd missed on his first go around.  There's a large, messy desk in the middle of the room, and a wall to ceiling bookcase filled to the brim.  Ian moves closer to inspect the titles.  Mostly nonfiction.  Several books on how to run your own business.  Some photographic history of Chicago coffee table books.  Books on kayaking, of course.

And at least three books on Bipolar Disorder, that Ian can see.  One is the size of a textbook.  Another is simply called _Manic_ , and looks to be a heavily thumbed through memoir.

Ian stands there, heart caught in his throat, torn between instinctual outrage and feeling genuinely touched by the care Mickey’s evidently taken in learning what he could over the years about what may be to come.

Ian’s always felt a curious mixture of pride and embarrassment when it comes to his struggles with mental illness.   _This is who I am.  You can’t fix me.  I’m not broken_.  And yet.  The shame in having to explain your actions and reactions.  Needing people to look after you, sometimes, when you aren’t properly caring for yourself.

Panic sets in as Ian remembers Mickey’s freak out at the hotel all those years ago, having just learned about Ian’s likely disorder.  Days before he’d decided to let Ian go.  What if Ian gets bad again and Mickey can’t handle it?  What if Mickey leaves?  What if - what if Ian fucks up again?

Ian bounds up the stairs before he even realizes what he’s doing, rushing into the bedroom, where Mickey is still sleeping on the poor, damaged bed, naked and exposed in the afternoon sun.

“Mickey,” he calls softly, crouching down and rubbing Mickey’s shoulder.  “Hey.  Mick.”

Mickey’s eyebrows roam around his forehead as if they aren’t attached. He sniffs.  Then, finally, he opens his eyes and immediately groans at the bright light, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hey,” Ian says again to bring Mickey’s focus in.

“Oh.”  Mickey sits up abruptly, face immediately guarded.  “You leavin’?”

“Huh?” Ian follows Mickey’s gaze down to his fully clothed body.  “Oh!  No.  I was just letting you sleep in.  It’s after lunch time.”

“Really?  Fuck.”  Mickey leans back onto the pillows, grimacing as he takes in the state of it.  “You didn’t have to stick around.”

“I wanted to,” Ian insists.  “Was hoping you and me could talk.”

“Yeah?”  Mickey’s keenly alert now.  On edge, even.

“Maybe put some clothes on first?” Ian asks playfully, hoping to ease the tension.  “You’re making me want to murder your bed again.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up again as he takes in the state of his bedroom, then looks down at himself, naked head to toe and completely exposed save for the sheet twisted around his calves.

“Fuck, that was good,” he comments, closing his eyes.  “You owe me a new bed.”

“That can be arranged.”

Mickey opens one eye, peering at Ian, who grins back.

“Gimme a minute and I’ll meet you downstairs,” Mickey says finally, rolling over on his stomach and exposing his beautiful ass as he crawls out of bed.  He shakes his head as he takes in the bent headboard before stumbling into the bathroom.

Ian sighs and gets up, closing the bedroom door behind him as he heads back down the stairs.  Jack is fast asleep on the couch.  Ian sits down on a stool at the kitchen island and waits.

It’s difficult to get a read on what Mickey wants.  Sometimes he seems like he’s all in, ready to do this for real.  And other moments, like now, he seems unsure.

“Hungry?” Mickey interrupts his thoughts, bustling into the kitchen in a tank top and cargo shorts, feet bare.

“I could eat.”

Mickey goes about digging out sandwich supplies,  spreading enormous dollops of  mayonnaise on two slices of bread before adding deli meat and cheese.  He pulls out plates from a cupboard and passes one completed sandwich to Ian.

“Thanks," Ian tells him, and Mickey nods through a mouthful.

“Sandwiches are about the only thing I can do,” he says after he swallows.  “I make a mean grilled cheese.”

“I know,” Ian tell him, smiling through his bite.  “You used to make them for me and Yev when Svetlana was working late.”  Mickey pauses, pensive, sandwich halfway to his mouth.  “Sorry,” Ian says quickly.  “I don’t need to say that stuff.”

“No,” Mickey insists, shaking his head.  “No.  I like it.  Sometimes it just-”  he gestures to his head.  “Jogs something.”

Ian nods.  An awkward silence falls over them as they eat.  Ian finishes his last bite and wipes his hands on his pants.  “So.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows.  “So,” he repeats.  “What's your plan?”

“Honestly?” Ian asks.  Mickey nods, glancing at Ian and rubbing the pads of his fingers over his lips.  Ian leans forward, catching Mickey’s eyes, the other man's nervousness making him feel brave.  “I _might_ have all my shit packed in my car.  And I _might_ have a job interview on Monday.”

Mickey’s eyes go wide, and after a beat a faint hint of his familiar cocky smirk is back.

“Put all your eggs in one basket, huh?”

Ian lifts one shoulder in a shrug, grinning.  “Ready to do this, if you are.”

Mickey shifts, picking at a lone crumb on the counter.

“Feels good when I’m with you.  It feels right.”

“But?” Ian prompts.

Mickey sighs.  “I’m just worried, alright?   I manage a fucking kayak rental shop.  I barely manage to pay my bills.  I ain’t living some exciting life in the city.  It won’t be like you had with John.”

“Stop,” Ian orders.  “There is no comparison.  It’s like apples and oranges.  I loved him because of who he was, not the lifestyle he gave me.  And I love you for the exact same reason.  I have _always_ loved you.”  Mickey swallows, closing his eyes briefly.  Ian reaches out to grasp his hand, and Mickey squeezes back.  “What is this really about?” Ian asks softly.  “I saw the books in your office, Mick.  Is this about the Bipolar?”

“No,” Mickey denies, shaking his head.  “No.  I just wanted to know more.  How I could help you if you need it.”

“You’re gonna do great,” Ian assures him.  “You always do great.  Take real good care of me.”

Mickey clears his throat and blinks hard.  He moves around the counter until he’s standing in front of Ian.  Hesitantly, he touches Ian’s shoulders.  “Do you believe in fate? Like, shit happening the way it’s supposed to happen?”

“You’re asking me, your soulmate, if I believe in fate?” Ian deadpans.  Mickey snorts and swats him.

“Whatever.  I’m just saying - everything that happened between us.  The time we’ve had to spend apart.  It all feels kinda worth it.  Like this is when we’re supposed to be together, you know?”  

Ian swallows.  “Yeah.  I know exactly what you mean.”

They smile at one another.

“I wanna take you kayaking,” Mickey tells him suddenly.  “Me and Jack make a pretty good team out there but it'd be nice to have a third wheel.  Ain't nothing like being out on the water.”

Ian laughs, pleased that Mickey wants to share his pastime with him.  “I’d like that.”

“Wanna do something else first, though,” Mickey says, voice lowering.

“What's that?” Ian breathes as Mickey's face drifts closer.  Mickey's beautiful, plush lips quirk up at the corners.  His hands thread through the short hairs at the back of Ian's neck.

“C’mere.”

Their lips meet, and memories of first kisses and angry kisses and passionate kisses and goodbye kisses burst into Ian's brain. He can’t wait for the thousands of future kisses he'll get to experience with Mickey as the years go by.

A low _woof_ interrupts them, and they look down to see Jack staring up at them, head cocked curiously.

“Get used to it buddy,” Mickey tells the dog, grinning against Ian’s mouth as their lips meet again.  And again, and again.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT WAIT - THERE'S MORE!
> 
> Keep your eye out for one more post-epilogue Epilogue!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [lan-jev](http://lan-jev.tumblr.com)


	10. Post-Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by the movie Hancock (2008). 
> 
> Title from the song [1000 Times](https://youtu.be/n2nCDq-JQdM) by Sara Bareilles.

**6 MORE YEARS LATER**

 

His alarm wakes him up bright and early on a Wednesday.  So early, in fact, that it isn’t yet light out.  The days have been growing shorter, the sun coming up later and going down sooner, a sign that the season for kayaking is ending.  Now he’s got six to eight months, depending on the weather, to sit on his ass and wait around for Ian to come home.  A regular fucking housewife.  Emphasis on the fucking.

Mickey groans as he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  You’d think after years and years, _lifetimes_ for some people, he would be more of a morning person.  Ian seems to just pop out of bed most days without a problem.  Especially when he’s feeling _up._

Ian’s on night shift this week.  Those are the bane of Mickey’s existence.  Mickey gets out of bed alone after tossing and turning all night.  He gets ready for work alone, with only Jack to keep him company.  And sometimes, if he’s lucky, he’ll get a glimpse of Ian coming in the door just as he’s leaving.  And then when he comes home after a long day of hauling kayaks and sticking his hands in smelly tanks of worms, they get a few hours before Ian’s off to work again, back on shift.

Thankfully, it’s almost over this week, then they’ll enjoy a full 48 hours off together before Ian gets back on days.

Mickey finally gets up to relieve himself, then goes to stand in front of the sink. He grabs his toothbrush from the cup and smiles like the sappy idiot he is when he sees Ian’s in there too.  It’s been years, but sometimes it still hits him:  He’s got a life partner, a forever partner, a soulmate, who fucks him good and loves him hard and pisses him the fuck off a lot of the time too.

When he's finished brushing he reaches for the pomade to make some sense out of his hair when something stops him.

“The fuck?” he breathes as he leans closer to the mirror.  There, along his left temple, is a lone gray hair.  Mickey huffs a laugh, just staring for a long moment.  Then he inspects his face closer.  He does look older in the face, now that he’s paying attention.  Some more lines on his forehead.  Crinkly wrinkles beginning to form around his eyes when he smiles.

He’s getting older.  It’s fucking wonderful.

He dresses in his traditional summer uniform, a tank top and shorts, and pads down the stairs.  Jack 3.0 shifts in his kennel.

"Hey buddy,” Mickey greets, opening the gate and burying his face in the dog’s neck as Jack trots out, tail thumping.   He moves much slower these days.  He’s going white around his muzzle.  Sometimes he has accidents in the house.  “We’re getting up there, you and me.  Ian still looks like a greek god, of course.  Fucker.”  He pats the dog one last time and lets him out into the yard.  When the time comes, he’ll get a Jack 4.0.  He knows Ian doesn’t really understand it, but for Mickey it’s almost like having a connection to his son.  The son he’ll never really remember, as much as he tries.  But it helps to have Ian there.  When Mickey’s feeling down, Ian tells him story after story about their lives as they lie in bed together on lazy mornings.  And when Mickey can’t stand to be reminded of the past, Ian shuts up about it.  He’s good at reading Mickey like that.

The coffee’s just about done when the front door closes and Ian walks into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he greets, with a genuine yet tired grin on his beautiful face.  He drops his duffel bag onto the table and Mickey meets him halfway for a kiss.  Ian hugs him around the waist and buries his nose into Mickey’s shoulder, breathing in deeply, in that creepy, endearing way that he does.

“Hey,” Mickey says back, squeezing him once before releasing as the coffee pot beeps.  “Want a cup?  It’s decaf," he offers, going to the cupboard for a mug.  Ian groans.

“You gotta quit making decaf, man.  You know it won’t help you in the mornings.”

“You can’t have caffeine,” Mickey says matter of factly.  “I ain’t gonna make something you can’t have and drink it right in front of you.”

Ian crowds behind him as he pours, bumping his hips against Mickey’s ass.

“You’re so good to me.”

“Watch it,” Mickey warns as he spills a little onto the counter.  “If I burn myself you’ll have to fuck off for a few days while I heal.”  Ian backs off immediately, a pout on his lips.  “Few more days,” Mickey pacifies, blowing on his coffee before taking an experimental sip.  “Then we can just chill.  You wanna go out on the water?”

“Definitely,” Ian affirms.  “How’s Jack today?”

“Same.  Moving slow.”

Ian’s eyebrows knit together as he takes a step closer to Mickey.

“Are you gonna be okay?  When the time comes?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says easily.  “Death’s a part of life, right?  He’s lived a good long life.”

Ian smiles a little sadly.  “Yeah.”  Mickey knows he’s thinking about Lip.  Lip and Amanda had died in their sleep two years ago after a coordinated overdose of pills.  Lip, being Lip, had left all of his affairs in tight order, with a new protege for his research and census.  He’d left a sizeable amount of money to Ian and Mickey, and they’d set Charlie’s son up for college with it.

“Got some news,” Mickey tells Ian, changing the subject.  “Do I look any different to you?”

Ian frowns, moving closer to inspect.  Mickey helps him out after a minute, pointing out the gray hair.  Ian laughs.

“My silver fox.”  He kisses Mickey’s temple.  “But I have news for _you_.  You’ve had a couple gray pubes for a while now.”

Ian guffaws as Mickey swats at him.

“Dick.”

They laugh together as they embrace again.

“Gonna go up and crash,” Ian tells him, pulling away.  “Long night.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey agrees, dumping the rest of his cup into the sink.  “Get some sleep and I’ll see you tonight for supper.”

“Thinking I’ll make lapsha tonight,” Ian tells him.  “Got a craving for some home cooked meals.”

“Every meal you make is home cooked,” Mickey reminds him, but he knows what Ian means.  Meals that Svetlana would cook them, before.  He pulls Ian to him again and kisses him one last time.  “Go to bed.  Love you.”

“Love you too.”  Ian smiles and backs away, grabbing his bag before heading up the stairs.  Mickey watches him go, standing in the kitchen and listening until he hears the shower start up in their bathroom.  Then he finds his keys, whistles for Jack, and heads to work.  Soon he'll come back home, have a quiet dinner with Ian, maybe get some great sex before bed, only to get up and do it all over again.  Life is simple.  Normal.  Perfect.  And he has Ian with him, right beside him every step of the way, for the rest of his life.  

 

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @wideblueskies, the best beta on the planet, for being quick and thorough and helpful and lovely. Thank you to @lydiamartenism for being so helpful all those months ago and talking me through my plot points when this story was a wee infant. And thank you to @me-ladie for coming to my rescue literal days before I was meant to post, providing me with beautiful art you can find [here](https://me-ladie.tumblr.com/post/154727544810/lanjev-1000-times-lanjevinson-shameless), [here](https://me-ladie.tumblr.com/post/154702334595/lanjev-1000-times-lanjevinson-shameless-big), and [here](https://me-ladie.tumblr.com/post/154696828940/lanjev-1000-times-lanjevinson-shameless). Thank you to @grumblesandmumbles for the friendship and support. And thank you to everyone who has read my work over the past several months, especially to those who have shared your thoughts and been so supportive. I'm so glad for this experience.
> 
> You can find me [here](https://lan-jev.tumblr.com/).


End file.
